Of Velvet Hat Boxes and Lousy Headlines
by Mayarin
Summary: Izzie Romero never thought anything would happen beyond her mediocre life of running people's errands. She would have been right, no doubt about it, if she hadn't met Jack Kelly one day in 1899, precisely as he was planning an epic strike.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters.

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><p>I met Jack Kelly on a Tuesday afternoon in 1899, three years after I came to this city of lights.<p>

I had woken up late that morning, I remember. Hair in curly disarray, a different shoe on each foot, I ran from the apartment to millinery, falling and scuffing my mismatched shoes until they resembled the burn victims I had seen being hauled out of the store next door the other night.

Fast, faster, fastest – I couldn't be late.

I knew it wasn't going to be a good day.

It was summer, and it was hot. Even in early morning, sweat beads grew along my neck and poured down my chest as I ran to the millinery, dodging children on my way.

I was greeted at the front door with crossed arms and a hard look at my massacred shoes. A deliberate push on the shoulder brought me inside, where I proceeded to trip once more.

"Gracious, Isabel. It's a wonder you can walk down the street."

(Should I tell her I often wonder the same thing?)

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Woods," I said, smoothing out my dress. "I won't be late tomorrow."

Caroline Woods looked at me silently for nearly a minute (she had a habit of doing that). She then clasped her hands in front of her.

"Do make sure that you aren't, Isabel." I watched as her right index finger tapped the adjacent hand. Then, "I need you to take this hat to Mrs. Parker. I believe you know where her house is, no?"

I nodded and went immediately for the door, desperate to get out of the suffocating air of the shop.

"And Isabel," she called from where she stood. "For goodness sake, don't be late."

The perfect last-minute jab. _She is really getting good at those_, I thought to myself. Mumbling and stumbling out of the store, I walked through the streets, hat box in hand.

I will admit that I do not have the best sense of direction, but Caroline Woods was right in that I did know where Mrs. Parker lived. It wasn't too difficult, as _everyone _knew where Mrs. Parker lived, seeing as she was the most prolific socialite the world may have ever seen.

I despised going to her house. Oh, but silly me! It wasn't a house in the traditional sense of the word; it would most accurately be described as a mansion. And she was sure to let everyone know, too. From the second you walked in her front door there were twisting stairwells every which way, running from here to there, elegant but a bit too much, you know? You might understand, but well, she obviously didn't.

And boy, how she disliked me. The first time I delivered a hat to her _mansion_ she must not have seen the box in my hand, because she laughed mirthlessly at my presence and closed the door. Humiliating, to say the least. I heard a woman chuckle at me under her breath as she cleaned her stairs. I had to knock again (begrudgingly). She finally saw the box and let me into her mansion, checking behind me for mud tracks.

Oh, and the kicker? Every time I showed up at her house, she would give me a full over glance at my less-than-perfect dresses and would tsk-tsk at me. I _hated_ the tsk-tsk's. Do I look like a horse? A dog, perhaps?

Better not answer that.

Let's forget about her. So there I was, minding my own business, walkingwalkingwalking, on my way to The Mansion. I have a habit of staring at the ground when I walk, which usually helps me avoid stumbling over bumps and dents, but that morning it was my downfall.

BOOM! One minute I'm walking the streets of Manhattan and the next I'm meeting the gutters of Manhattan.

I had attributed my yet another fall to my eternal clumsiness, but was surprised when I was invisibly (to me, at least) picked up from my well-known place on the ground.

Hat box still in hand, I whipped around (in confusion, mind you, not anger).

The first thing I saw was a red bandanna. Odd. Then a ten gallon hat, and then finally the wearer himself. A boy, I noted observantly, and probably around my age.

"Watch where yer goin' next time," the displaced cowboy said to me.

"Why are you wearing that?" Nice one, Izzie.

"What?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"That hat," I said, glancing at it suspiciously.

He looked at me for a minute, not bothering to address my question. "You ain't from around here, are ya?"

Great.

"I know _what_ it is; I'm asking why you're wearing it," I said.

He raised his other eyebrow. "'Cause it's mine. Is that good enough for ya?"

I didn't respond; I just kept looking at that hat.

"Yer an odd girl, ya know that?" he said.

"So I've been told."

He laughed, but only a little. Then he looked at me, sizing me up like he was checking for bruises on an apple he planned on buying. "So, where are ya from?"

"Me?"

He looked around. "I'm talkin' to ya, aren't I?"

I bit my cheek.

"What?" he said. "Ya can't tell me where yer from?"

"I don't know if I should. I mean -" I said, trying to soften the blow. "I don't really know who you are."

"Can't blame ya for that."

He didn't look particularly suspicious, except for that ridiculous hat. _Caroline Woods would probably like it,_ I thought. When I didn't respond, he shrugged and turned around to walk away.

It was that hat that did me in. I know, it sounds ridiculous that a hat could persuade me to give up my personal details, but I figured I could trust someone who so naturally wore it around in a place where it didn't belong. I identified with that hat.

"Cuba," I said.

"What?" He turned back around.

"That's where I'm from."

He then proceeded to look me over. "Yeah? Didya come before or after the war?"

I raised my eyebrows. "You know about that?"

"I'm a newsie, Cuba. I know everything."

Ahh, a newsie. That explained the tattered clothes and the devil-may-care attitude. Now that the war was over neither my father nor I tended to read the newspaper much, but Caroline Woods always had one of her girls buy a paper for her in the morning, so I remembered them perfectly well.

"Where'd ya learn to speak English?" he asked.

I suddenly became self-conscious of my accent. "Oh… well, I learned a little back in Cuba, but mostly from living here."

"Ya speak pretty good."

"Thanks," I said, picking at my fingernails.

"Here, ya dropped this," he said, kicking me right out of my reverie and handing me the hat box I had carelessly dropped on the ground.

"Oh, thanks."

"What is it?"

"Oh," I said, looking at the box in my hands. "It's a hat."

"A hat?"

"Yeah, I'm supposed to deliver it." I had forgotten about Mrs. Parker. I slapped myself on the forehead, knowing it would leave a mark yet again. Bad habit.

The cowboy kid looked at me strangely.

"I'm sorry," I said as I gathered up the box that had fallen out of my hand once again in my surprise. "I really need to go."

I nodded a sort of goodbye and starting shuffling away from the boy. I desperately wanted to run – and knew I needed to if I was going to get to Mrs. Parker's on time – but I didn't want to look too desperate in front of a boy I had just met, especially one as subdued as he.

"Where does she live?" he called after me. I cringed.

"Excuse me?" I asked, turning around.

"Look, I'm the one that made ya late, so I'll help ya get there. Where does she live?"

"I know how to get there," I said, pivoting to walk off again.

"Maybe, but I know how to get there _faster_."

As I saw it, I had no choice but to tell him. To continue arguing would only waste more time, so I told him Mrs. Parker's address and hoped that he actually knew what he was doing.

As soon as I had told him the address he took off at a jog, and I was obliged to follow. He laughed as I tripped over a crack in the alley street and when a pigeon frightened me as it flew out of its dark nest.

"So you deliver hats?" he asked, a couple paces ahead of me.

"Among other things," I said, brushing a damp cobweb out of my eyes. "I also polish my boss's shoes and kiss the ground she walks upon."

He laughed and it echoed warmly against the brick walls. "So ya really like her, huh?"

We stepped out of the alley into disturbing sunshine – so disturbing I had to cover my eyes. "She might not be so bad if I didn't have to work for her," I replied.

"All bosses are like that."

He was right.

"So how'd ya end up workin' for her, anyway?"

I thought for a minute. "I delivered bread before. I think she was looking for someone to do her deliveries, saw me running around and hired me."

He chuckled as he ran. "I can see why."

"What?"

"You're fast, kid. Not many people can keep up with me."

I could feel the corner of my lip slipping upwards. "Let's hope so," I said under my breath.

We took a right behind a textile factory I had passed a couple of times on my way to the Parker Mansion.

"How in the world do you find these short cuts?" I called out to him, who was still ahead.

"Newsies gotta know how to get themselves outta sticky situations," he said. "I can get ya just about anywhere in half the time."

I took the chance to prod. "How did you become a newsie?"

He stopped at the corner we were on and looked around, but I wasn't sure if his silence was because he didn't know where to go next or because of my question.

"I needed money."

No more questions. I got the picture.

"We're almost there," he said. I looked down the street and there it was: Mrs. Parker's mansion, standing it all its overdone glory.

"How'd –" I started but realized he was already running down the street, so I followed, stumbling along the way. We were on her front doorstep in mere moments.

"Well, here it is," he said.

I looked back at where we came from, as if it had happened in double speed. "Thanks," I said dreamily.

He nodded and started to walk away. He hesitated and turned around.

"What's yer name?"

"Izzie Romero," I said. I figured I had already told him where I was from, he saw the general area I worked in – I might as well give him the full details.

"Jack Kelly," he said with a fleeting nod of his head. "Nice to meet ya, Izzie Romero. Maybe I'll see ya 'round."

I stared after him like a dope. I was glad for his shortcut, as weird a coincidence as it was to have met him (at least I _thought_ it was a coincidence). A passing car knocked me back into reality. I tapped on the outrageous front door of the mansion and waited. The door opened and I hoped with crossed fingers that the shortcut had been short enough.

Made-up, angry eyes and delicately flared nostrils told me it hadn't been.

Too late.

During both my lectures (courtesy of both Mrs. Parker _and_ Caroline Woods), I cursed Jack Kelly from New York to Cuba and back again.

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><p><strong>AN:** Constructive criticism is welcomed, especially if you find any characters OOC, but flames are not.

Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>"Hurry up, papá – you should have been at work ten minutes ago!"<p>

"Calm down, Isabel. The cigars can wait a couple minutes."

That's my father – the best cigar maker in all of New York. When my mother died, he took over taking care of me. Actually, he has been taking care of me since before I was even born. He made the food for my pregnant mother, bathed her, sang to her, and even helped me out of that cramped womb. I owe _everything_ to that man.

So now I take care of him. I know I'll never be able to make it up to him, but I try.

"But your breakfast is getting cold."

I stood at the stove and heard my father's heavy footsteps walk slowly towards the middle of the room. I heard the unyielding scrape of the chair across the floor and knew he had sat down. I brought over his toast and coffee and set them down in front of him.

"Gracias, cariño," he said under his breath.

"You're welcome, papá," I said, cleaning up the mess I had made.

"So my dear, what are you going to do today?" he asked.

"Just going to work, papá."

"And you're going to be very careful, aren't you, Isabel?"

"I always am, papá," I said, rolling my eyes and then kissing him on the cheek.

He nodded and stood up.

"I'll see you tonight, Isabel."

"Have a great day, papá."

In case you are wondering, I never told my father about meeting Jack Kelly a couple of days earlier. As much as I loved my father, I never really told him much of anything. He knew a couple of my close friends, but we never talked about much further than that. So I let it be. No need to make him worry, right?

It's funny – I had left the apartment extra early to make sure I didn't arrive to work late, but it hadn't worked. To this day, I still can't explain the physics of it, but if you can figure it out, please let me know. It would have saved me a morning lecture and walking out of the shop with my figurative tail between my legs.

"Isabel."

That was all she had to say.

"I know, I promised, but –"

"I'm not interested in your excuses, Isabel. I expect you to be on time. Why is that so difficult for you?"

"I'm trying really hard, Ms. Woods, it's just –"

"Your _trying_ isn't getting you anywhere, Isabel. You either arrive on time, or not at all. You understand?"

"Yes, Ms. Woods."

I went in back to organize the custom orders and to get away from those scrutinizing green eyes that stared back at me behind wire-rimmed glasses. Damn those eyes. If only she didn't have any – I wouldn't have so many problems.

I had been working in the back for a couple hours when I heard Caroline Woods's favorite assistant – Helen (ugh) – talking to my daytime tormentor.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Woods; I went to buy a newspaper for you but there are no newsboys."

I peeked out of the back room to see Caroline Woods's face. I didn't want to miss that face of bad news. In case you were wondering, I sure wasn't disappointed. Caroline Woods looked up from the needlework she was adding to Mrs. Parker's next elaborate hat and pursed her lips. She pursed her lips and folded her hands, which I knew from experience was a bad sign.

"No newsboys?" she asked, her countenance making clear her patience was wearing thin. I truly thought her perfectly painted face would implode _and_ explode from her exertions.

"No, Ms. Woods," was the reply, with fiddling fingers.

"And how are we going to get our news, Helen?" was the next question out of that solidly pursed mouth.

"I'm not sure, Ms. Woods. Would you like me to walk to Midtown? Perhaps they – "

"Oh, never mind, Helen. Just get back to work."

I was relieved that Helen's newspaper failure took the attention off of me. The disappearance of all the local newsboys was a bit odd, but I didn't think about it much because it didn't affect me insofar that Caroline Woods would be in a bad mood for the rest of the day. The only newsboy I had ever "known" was that Jack Kelly kid, and I couldn't say it was the best experience I'd ever had. The streets were quieter without the newsboys' "hawking," anyways.

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed with a few mishaps and I was almost out the door.

"Isabel, before you go, I have something to ask you."

It was a Friday. A favor on Friday was not a good sign. She walked over to me at the door, which I held open out of hope I would be able to sneak out.

"What is it that you need, Ms. Woods?"

"I must ask that tomorrow, you bring this hat over to Irving Hall," she said, handing me a purple velvet hatbox with a satin ribbon.

She continued, "There is a woman there, named Medda Larkson. Are you paying attention? Very well. She is a new customer of ours and I have great hopes that she will be a loyal patron in the future, which is why I need you to deliver the hat tomorrow. Don't give me that look, Isabel. I know it is a Saturday, but I also happen to know that you don't have anything better to do. I expect it to be delivered _on time_, understood?"

"Yes, Ms. Woods," I said, pouting. I took the hat box from her hands and marched out the door.

As I stepped out of the shop, I saw a boy to my right – pretty small, and in some ratty old clothes – take off down the street, his curly hair flapping under his cap. I didn't see anyone running behind him, so I was immediately suspicious. No chase? What in the world did he run off for? And why had he been so close to the door?

"Izzie! Por Dios, it took you long enough!"

That's Dolores, but she'll pinch you where it counts if you call her that. She's Lola to everyone, except her mother and my father.

"Sorry, Lola. Caroline Woods dearest wanted to chat."

She saw the box in my hands and frowned at me. "What, you have to work this weekend too?"

I tried to brush it off. "It's just one hat. I have to bring it to Irving Hall tomorrow, if I can find the place, that is."

"Irving Hall, huh?" she said as we walked. "I think Carlos knows where that is. We'll go with you." In case you were wondering, Carlos is Lola's older brother who prides himself on knowing all the ins-and-outs of Manhattan.

"I don't need you two to chaperone me," I insisted.

"Izzie, you and I both know you'll get lost."

"Really, Lola, you don't have to."

"Oh, shut up, Izzie. We're going, so stop complaining."

There really is no arguing with Lola.

"So," she said. "Have you seen that boy again?"

I regretted telling her about my "encounter" with Jack Kelly.

"No, and I don't want to."

"Aw, come on, Izzie. You haven't had a suitor yet – maybe he'll be the first!"

I pursed my lips (just like my favorite milliner) and narrowed my eyes.

"Lola, drop it, alright?"

"But it's so fun to tease you, Izzie. Why stop now?"

I dropped her arm, which had been looped through mine and walked faster ahead of my friend.

"You shouldn't pout, you know. You look ugly when you pout," she called after me.

Turning around, I yelled back, "And what do I care about looking ugly? That will keep those newsboys away from me."

"It was a joke, Izzie!" she insisted, running up to hook my arm once again.

Not only is it impossible to argue with Lola, it is also impossible to stay mad at her. That charming smile of hers could convince the executioner to lower his axe.

We kept walking and I laughed at the boys staring after her, hoping she'd turn around and waltz over to them.

"What?" she asked, having caught my laughing gaze.

"Those poor boys, Lola. You drive them crazy. You should really give them a chance, you know."

She turned and glared at me. "I have given them a chance, Izzie, you know that. We'll talk and they all just end up staring at me and not listening to a word I say."

"Tough life," I said, which earned an elbow in my side.

Here's the thing: Lola isn't really that beautiful. Don't get me wrong, she's pretty, but she's not the kind of girl that spends hours in front of a mirror in the hopes of catching a man (And thank goodness, because if she did I wouldn't be able to stand her). Lola's beauty (or attraction?) comes from confidence.

We dodged the last few staring boys and finally got to the apartment. I could tell my father was in a good mood. He was bustling about by the time Lola and I came in, and dinner was already on the table.

"Cariño, I'm glad you're home," he said, rustling my already mussy hair. "Good to see you, Dolores."

I saw Lola flinch as he used her full name, but she nodded good-humoredly at his greeting and we both sat at the wood-knicked dinner table.

"Papá, what's gotten into you?" I asked. I could count on one hand the number of times he had cooked dinner for the two of us.

"Nothing," he said, looking slightly hurt. "I just felt like cooking for my daughter, that's all."

I felt a twinge of regret for having questioned him, but I got over it.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Romero? Izzie told me you had been feeling unwell recently," Lola said.

"I'm feeling much better, Dolores, thank you. Just a bit of a cold, that was all. But tell me, how is your family?"

I listened for about a minute before I drew myself into my mind while Lola explained her mother's stresses, her brother's fights and her father's work. It was usually the same old thing, so I didn't ask and Lola didn't tell, but my father as a polite man couldn't help himself.

"So did you have a good day at work, Isabel?" he turned and asked me.

Lola bit her lip to keep from smiling. She knew I rarely told my father the truth of what happened at the millinery. I didn't want to worry him with Caroline Woods's snide remarks and unjust punishments.

"It was fine, papá. I've learned a lot from Ms. Woods." (Yeah, like how to avoid those frightening angry eyes.)

"What is that you brought with you? A weekend delivery?" he asked.

I glanced at the box sitting next to the door, hoping it would have disappeared since I had set it there.

"Unfortunately," I mumbled.

"Carlos and I are going to take her, Mr. Romero," Lola piped in, happy to include my father in her plan. She was funny like that: her parents never knew where she had run off to, but when it came to everyone else she wanted their parents to know everything.

"Gracias, Dolores. I'm sure Isabel will enjoy the company," he said with a wink.

"Sure. As long as Carlos doesn't stop to talk to every girl he sees."

Lola laughed, probably because she knew all of the girls in Manhattan had learned Carlos's tricks. His reputation had finally caught up with him.

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><p><strong>AN: **Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

A sincere thank you to Austra and stress for their encouraging reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>"Are you sure you know where you're going, Carlos?"<p>

I was nervous, to say the least. I did my best to avoid walking around Manhattan at night (safety reasons, you see) but Caroline Woods said Medda wouldn't be at the theatre until evening so I had no choice. The streetlights flickered off the store windows creating fleeting assailants, which didn't make me feel any safer. I was convinced that Carlos was leading us on a wild goose chase.

"Shush, Izzie – of course Carlos knows the way. Right, Carlos?" said Lola, but I could see her squinting in the darkness too.

"Relax, you two," said Carlos, his smirk beaming through the heavy night air. "There's not a place in Manhattan I don't know where it is. We'll get there, alright.'

Turning one last corner, I saw it: "Irving Hall," written in white bulbous lights across the marquee. The theatre wasn't overly large, but it was certainly lavish – more lavish than anything I had ever seen. It was easy to see how the lead performer would want one of Caroline Woods' opulent hats.

"So –" I tried to say, thinking of what to do next. They anticipated my thought.

"We'll wait out here for you, Izzie. Caroline Woods will never know you brought us."

I was interminably thankful for Lola's understanding – Caroline Woods hardly liked _me_ going on deliveries, much less with a group of friends. I didn't even want to _think_ about what she would say.

I nodded and walked up to the front doors. I was dumbfounded, mainly because I had never been to _that_ type of establishment before. My life had been mainly spent between the millinery and my house, at times stopping at Lola's and every once and a while at a nearby restaurant. I had never been to a theatre before. Cultured people went to theatres.

I may be a lot of things, but cultured is not one of them.

I put my fingers on the door handle, hesitating.

"Go on, Izzie!" Carlos called.

I was caught in my cowardice and knew I'd have to go through with it. Carlos and Lola would not take kindly to being dragged around the streets at night for no reason. Well, Lola wouldn't, at least.

I opened the door and peered around inside before taking a full step in.

"Excuse me, sir?" I asked the man at the entrance. "I'm looking for – ah, let me see – Ms. Medda Larkson. Is she here?"

He looked at me like I was one of those asylum nuts. _Had__ she__ not__ arranged __for__ deliveries__ before?_ I wondered.

I thought of the situation: a foreign _girl_, a frilly package in her hand, asking for the star of the show. I thought of the possibilities: an over-zealous admirer at best, a crazed psychopath at worst. The leathery wrinkles on his face held at bay the arroyos of sweat waiting patiently to run down the folds of his neck.

"Depends," he said, his smoky breath making my eyes water. "Who's askin'?"

I should have known it wasn't going to be easy.

"I have a hat for Ms. Larkson."

"A hat?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling mockingly. Perhaps he was used to more distinguished hat-carriers.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" My hand flew to my mouth. I could have kicked myself, had I the athletic prowess – it was definitely not the moment to be letting my mouth fly.

He glared at me for what I could fairly assume was my snarky comment, so I said the first thing that came to mind to appease his doubts.

"Ms. Caroline Woods sent me, sir. She very much values Ms. Larkson as a customer and asked me to deliver this hat here tonight."

Let it be known that I am not the kind of person to throw around Caroline Woods's name as if it were a hundred dollar note. In fact, I mostly avoided mentioning her if I could, as I knew most people would suspect why such a woman as her would hire someone like me. But this was a sticky situation to which I wanted a speedy end.

Either he recognized Caroline Woods's name or simply didn't care to talk to me any longer, because he said, "Her dressing room is down the hall. Make it quick."

I looked towards the direction he had pointed and hesitated for a moment. The hall looked ominous: stage ropes were hanging along one side and only a few lights swayed dangerously above to guide the way. Craning my neck, I looked to see if I could discern any overt dangers down the dark corridor. The cow-hide man growled impatiently, making me jump before I walked as quickly as I could out away from the entry area.

I took slow steps, looking carefully to my left and right so as not to miss the star's dressing room. I chuckled, realizing that once inside, the hall didn't look as frightening as it had from a distance. _You__'__re__ nuts_,_ Izzie,_ I told myself. _What__ in __the __world __co__uld __be __dangerous __about __a __theatre__?_

Oh, how wrong I was. Well, kind of.

I started walking a bit more confidently down the hall, increasing my pace and leaving my poor bleeding lip in peace. I saw a door at the end of the hallway that looked promising. "Medda" was written in what looked like gold leaf across the width of the door, so I made my way determinedly towards it, hopeful to finish the task as quickly as possible.

As I advanced towards my object I heard footsteps behind me. The latent memory of my fright at the hall returned; I jumped and rushed to plaster myself against the darkest wall, hoping whoever belonged to the footsteps wouldn't see me.

The footsteps grew closer and I pressed myself harder against the wormed wood. It smelled musty, yet I could still detect the trace of freshness it must have had when it was still alive in the forest. My inner dramatist came alive at that moment, mourning the fact that I would soon end up just like the dead wood I was pressed against.

"Hey!" I heard a familiar voice yell from a few feet away. The lights were so dim that I couldn't see my attacker's face. "What's wrong wit you?"

There he was; the object of my continual delay – Jack Kelly. My bitten fingernails still clinging desperately to the soft wood behind me, I choked back a sob as three shadowy faces came near. I knew Jack Kelly first by his voice and then by his hat, which looked as out of place as always. The smaller boy next to him I recognized as the boy who had shot off from the millinery the day before.

"You!" I said, staring hard at the boy from my place against the wall. "You're a spy!"

The boy looked nervously between me and Jack, surprised I had caught him in his trick.

"Relax," Jack said casually. "He's was just doin' me a favor."

"What favor?" I asked, bristling. "Spying on me?"

Jack looked at the boy then back at me. "Well, yeah."

My mouth dropped open and I narrowed my eyes at him. "What, so now you're following me?"

The last boy of the group, curly-haired and clean, coughed and looked guiltily at Jack.

"Look, don't get so huffy about it, alright? We needed to know where you were goin'."

"What in the world for!"

"We've got a proposition for ya."

I managed to peel my arms off the wall, glaring all the while at my three assailants. "Well that's very nice, but I have a delivery to make."

I started to walk away from the scene, but Jack called after me. "Yeah, we know. For Medda."

I turned around, surprised at his use of her given name, then outraged at his undeserved knowledge. I focused my ire at the small one in the middle. "_That__'__s_ what you were listening for?"

He lowered his head into his neck, like a turtle in a mad escape.

Jack stepped forward. "Yeah," he said, unperturbed. "Come on, Medda's this way."

He walked past me but I didn't move, confident I should not trust someone who so blatantly admitted to planned espionage. I ended up turning around and following him, however; the contrite look on the spy's face made my skin crawl.

Jack went straight to the door I had been eyeing before the surprise attack and knocked.

"Please, come in!" a saccharine voice beckoned from inside.

He opened the door and held it for me to pass through, which I did, not missing the chance to shoot him a murderous scowl on my way.

What can I say about Medda Larskon's dressing room? Extravagant, yes, but comforting all the same. Perfumes, candies, flowers – everything a girl could imagine and all in perfect proportion. And Medda? Bewitching to say the least. I can assure you that I had never seen such a red before in my life, and certainly never on someone so perfectly suited for it.

Per my modus operandi (I read that in a book somewhere), I embarrassed myself. The moment I walked into her dressing room, I stood transfixed like an idiot. Jack's heavy footsteps came in behind me, followed by one other. _That__'__s __odd,_ I thought. _There __were __three __before._

"Can I help you, dear?" the carmine woman asked, much too kindly.

Jack stepped up next to me. "This here is Izzie Romero, Medda. She's got a delivery for ya."

I could have sworn I could see each one of her teeth, white as innocence, as she grinned broadly and stood up. "Of course! From Caroline Woods, no?" she said as she held out her hands for the box. "And you are right on time."

I shot Jack a glance and he smirked.

She opened the velvet box. The look on her face told me it was time to begin planning the details of my last meal. I was confounded when she lowered her voice to a serious tone and said, "Oh, my dear, it is absolutely perfect. My goodness," she continued, examining every angle of the hat. "This is quite the masterpiece."

I froze. No last meal? The hat was perfect? Not entirely sure how to respond, I stood there silently and nodded my head wildly.

Medda continued examining the hat and its many details while I slowly inched my way towards the door. "Well, Ms. Larkson, I'm very happy you like the hat… I should probably be on my way…"

She looked up. "I will be sure to tell Ms. Woods how helpful you were, Izzie Romero."

"Thank you, Ms. Larkson," I said. "Well, I had better get going – good evening."

"My dear, please call me Medda."

I nodded and smiled falsely, knowing I would _never_ call her Medda.

I was turning the knob – so close to freedom – when Jack Kelly stopped me. "Ya don't wanna go out front there – the show's about to start. Follow me and Davey here," he said, pointing to the boy who was not a spy (as far as I knew) next to him. "We'll get ya out quick."

"Oh, I think I'll be all right –" I tried to say, but Medda interrupted me.

"Oh no dear, Jack really is right. You should definitely go out the back way. You will show her, won't you boys?"

Jack's friend Davey gave me a serious nod when I looked at him and I knew I had no choice. Out in the hallway, I could hear feet trampling the wooden floors, just as Jack had said (unfortunately). The sweetly sickening stench of half-smoked cigars seeped through the porous walls.

Jack turned to the left and led the way down yet another dark hallway away from the noise.

I kept quiet. The silence didn't last long.

"So, Davey," Jack said, turning to his curly-haired companion. "Our pal Izzie here is from Cuba."

"That's what I hear," Davey said. He turned towards me, "Is it really true?"

"Unfortunately," I growled. I saw his confusion out of the corner of my eye.

Ignoring my overt hostility, Jack continued. "Alright Cuba, I know yer in a rush so here's the proposition. See, Davey here's a newsie too. We're on strike and we want ya to join us."

I stopped walking. "That's the worst proposition I've ever heard."

"Gimme a minute," he said, looking cross. "Ya didn't let me finish. You got somethin' we ain't got – yer from Cuba. Maybe ya don't know it yet, but that's what we need to get to Pulitzer. Yer gonna help us bring down the most powerful man in New York."

I shook my head. "Look, I know you don't know me very well, but you're gonna have to offer something a lot better than the pleasure of taking down a stranger I don't know – and quite frankly, don't care to know – to convince me to join your little strike."

I tried to walk on, but Davey grabbed my arm and stopped me in my tracks. "It's not a little strike. We've got newsies from boroughs all over New York joining us. Besides," he said, loosening his grip, "think of all the poor kids you'd be helping."

Davey's plea unfortunately got me thinking. Like most people in New York, I knew my fair share of poor kids – many more than my bodily digits could account for.

I looked back and forth between the two boys and finally settled on Davey.

"I'll give you three minutes."


	4. Chapter 4

A hearty thanks to stress for her reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>So there we were: three kids standing in the middle of a back hallway discussing a newspaper revolution.<p>

Was I hooked by Davey's initial plea? Not particularly.

I _was_ curious. How could an inconsequential Cuban girl like me make a difference in their strike? So I resolved to hear them out, for nothing else but to feel significant. Besides, Jack was giving me a glare that chilled me so deeply I didn't know if I'd be able to move a step farther even if I wanted to.

"Well," Davey said, shooting Jack a quick look. "I guess we should start from the beginning."

I tapped my foot impatiently (as I have a habit of doing when I'm nervous) while Davey told me all about Joseph Pulitzer and the newspaper price jack-up. I had heard the name Pulitzer in passing sometime during my three years in New York, but hadn't paid much attention to his influence. Like good patriots, my father and I had read newspapers up until the end of the war, so I have no doubt that _The__ New__ York __World_ was purchased in there somewhere.

It was a curious situation – the fighting seemed to have returned and _The__ World_ was involved once again.

Jack was silent while Davey went on with his account. He told me how their clan had been going to any and all New York boroughs to solicit support amongst the other newsies. They planned to recruit factory kids next, and then anyone they could get.

"So here is where you come in," Davey said. "Pulitzer published a lot of articles about the war in Cuba. Well, him and Hearst."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I read them," I said.

Both boys looked at me with raised eyebrows. "What?" I said. "You think I can't read?"

That seemed to knock them off their high horse.

"No one's sayin' ya can't read," Jack said, pulling his hat over his eyes, seemingly bored with my unwarranted aggression.

"Actually," Davey interrupted. "That's even better – that you've read the articles, I mean. You know what they wrote about then, right?"

It had been a long time since I had talked about the war. The question made me nervous and I pulled quietly at the skin between my thumb and forefinger. "Well, yes. I mean, it was everywhere – all the terrible things happening," I said hesitantly.

Davey's eyebrows knit together. "Well," he said. "So you know that Pulitzer published loads of articles saying the Spanish were tyrants and describing how horribly the Cubans were being treated. Both he and Hearst wanted to create public outrage so the country would to go to war."

Davey grew impatient when I didn't react. "War sells papes, and Pulitzer pulled in a whole lot of money thanks to the war. People wanted to help the abused Cubans because of those articles."

Jack interrupted. "Come on, Davey, we ain't got time for all this. Don't ya get it?" he said aggressively, turning on me. "We need yer help to show Pulitzer and the world that he's as big a hypocrite as they come. He wrote all about wantin' to save you Cubans but now he's practically killin' kids here in New York."

I started pulling more forcefully on my thumb web. Their argument made enough sense; that much I couldn't deny. As glad I was that someone had published compassionate articles about the Cubans, I couldn't deny the hypocrisy of this invisible man's actions.

Davey must have seen my tortured expression, because I saw him shoot Jack a warning look.

"I get what you're saying," I said, trying my best to put on my determined face. "It makes sense and all, but what can _I_ do about it? I'm just one kid."

Jack smirked. "That's the beauty of it. We only need one kid."

"What?"

Davey looked at me sympathetically, fumbling with his hands only slightly.

"Jack's right," he said, avoiding my eyes. "We just need one person to go talk to Pulitzer."

I felt my eyes grow three sizes in a matter of seconds. "Excuse me? You want _me_ to go talk to Pulitzer? I don't even know the man!"

"Yeah," Jack said evenly, "and neither does anyone else. That ain't the point. The point is you're Cuban, and he'd listen to you before anyone."

"Wait," I said, waving my hands hopelessly in the air. "Why am I responsible for this? You're newsies, why don't you go and talk to him?"

"We did," Davey said, looking everywhere except my face.

"And?"

Jack pulled his hat down again. "He didn't wanna see us."

I threw my hands up and covered my eyes. "Are you out of your mind? He refused to see you – what makes you think he's going to want to see me?"

"Well –" Davey tried to say.

"He won't," Jack interrupted. "But he ain't gotta choice in the matter."

Up until that point, everything had gone horribly wrong. Now it was becoming even more convoluted. "What are you talking about?"

Davey stepped forward, probably to block Jack from my death glare.

"We can't afford to have him send you away, so we're going to give him no choice but to listen to you."

"Oh, really? Pray tell, what is this plan in which you have misplaced so much confidence?"

"You'll sneak into his carriage."

It was too much. I had reluctantly let myself be persuaded to listen to their hopes of me joining their strike, but a futile mission such as the one they proposed was out of the question.

"Forget it."

I turned to walk away down the hall, but Davey put his hand on my shoulder.

"This could really work, Izzie."

"And if it doesn't? I'll be thrown in jail for the rest of my life and you'll still be penniless newsies!"

"But imagine if it does work. You could singlehandedly convince him he is wrong and save hundreds of newsies from living on the street."

"And I'll still be in jail."

"We'll come up with an escape plan."

"And it won't work."

"You're the most stubborn girl I've ever met, ya know that?" Jack said, stepping out from behind Davey. "What's so great about yer life that ya can't take a little risk?"

His words stung, just like the bee sting I had kindly received on my third birthday right below my left eye. He was right – I didn't have a reputation to risk, a family to risk (my father could take care of himself), a home to risk, a well-paying job to risk. Although I wouldn't count my life to date as a horrible monstrosity, I certainly lacked for variety and adventure, which Lola had the habit of reminding me.

I didn't say anything for a minute. Then I blurted out, "I just don't know about this. I mean, do you even know if Pulitzer has a carriage? What if someone is in there with him?"

"That ain't for you to worry about, Cuba," Jack said, puffing up his chest. "I went lookin' for a kid like you that day we met" (I choked back a cry of surprise) "to see if we'd have a chance. You're that chance. We'll tell ya what to do and when to do it. 'Sides, ya may not be a newsie, but you're one of us. You want to spend the rest of yer life workin' like a dog for that hat lady? Gettin' no respect?"

"Well, she's not so bad," I tried to say.

"Stop tryin' to convince yerself, Cuba. We're givin' ya the chance to stand up for all the poor kids here in New York."

He struck a nerve with his desperate (although I was sure he'd deny it) speech. I didn't mind working for Caroline Woods most of the time, but the image of Lola working at the cannery came immediately to mind. I knew how much she hated working there, sealing tins of food endlessly. Injuries, deaths, sickness, low pay – not much unlike what the newsies experienced. It was a fluke encounter that brought me to work for Caroline Woods, and I knew I would be in the same situation as Lola had it not been for the lack of hat deliverers in Manhattan.

And Marisol… Marisol was Lola's sister, younger than Carlos, but older than Lola. A year after her family moved to New York they hit tough times after her father was fired from his job. They had barely had enough food to feed the children, and Marisol up and left one day. Lola's parents pretended they didn't know where she had gone, but Lola and I had sloppily investigated and found out – she left to live at a house run by one of the well-known neighborhood "ladies". Once a month she would send money anonymously to Lola's house, but as hard as they tried, they could never contact her.

Once, Lola and I tried to get into the house to talk to her. Walking dejectedly from the bleak building, we had nothing left to show for our valiant efforts at contacting the girl except sore bottoms courtesy of the matron on duty.

They found out four months later that the checks would not be coming anymore. Finally, after months of absence, Marisol was returned to her family – but not as they had hoped.

She had died alone – sick in a cesspit of sweat and lace.

How many times had I tried to ask Lola about what had happened? She would never tell me. I finally found out one day as I bought my daily paper for war updates and saw an article on the death of a young foreign girl. Although the article didn't mention a name, I knew it was Marisol and I didn't ask Lola ever again.

Would the strike prevent what happened to Marisol from ever happening again? Not in slightest, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it was right to stand up against injustice, and let the world know that the downtrodden had a voice, however feeble it may sound.

"I'm not making any promises," I said, perhaps a bit snobbishly. "I need to think about it."

They nodded and Jack stuck out his hand to shake mine. "Then think about it, but we ain't got a lot of time. Meet us at Tibby's tomorrow."

"Tibby's?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Yeah, Tibby's," Jack said before he opened the back door for me to finally exit.

"Jack!" called the spy kid, running up to us. "I gotta talk to ya."

Jack nodded at Davey and gave me a hard look before turning to address his compact companion. Davey held the door open and motioned for me to go out. We walked down a short set of wooden stairs and stood at the bottom.

"Jack's kind of pushy sometimes," Davey said. I had forgotten he was still with me and turned around to face him. "But he's usually right."

I reached my hand back and held onto my bony neck. "This isn't easy, you know."

"I know," Davey said with a half-smile. "But it's a plan. Pulitzer will see that what he's doing is wrong."

"I doubt it."

"He will. He has to."

"I hope so. For my sake, mostly."

Davey laughed a little then looked at me for a moment. "I didn't get a chance to introduce myself to you. I'm David Jacobs."

"Isabel Romero. Well, David Jacobs," I said, holding out my hand, "it was nice to meet you. I better be going – it's getting pretty late."

"Did you come alone?"

"No, a couple friends are waiting for me at the entrance."

"I'll walk you."

I was too tired to argue with him.

As David and I got closer to the theatre entrance I saw Carlos talking indignantly to Lola, who had turned around completely and folded her arms. Another fight that was sure to continue all the way home – oh joy. Perhaps I am not one to speak on the subject, seeing as I am an only child, but do siblings _ever_ get along? There must be some out there – I'd sure like to ask them their secret.

Carlos must have heard our footsteps because he turned and waved. "Hey Izzie! What took you so long?"

Seeing David, he stopped waving and narrowed his eyes. Davey must have seen this because he turned to me and said, "I think I'll leave you here. I don't want you to get in any trouble with your admirer."

I laughed – well, more like a guffaw – so hard I almost doubled over. "Oh no, it's not like that. No, oh no, no, no."

Davey looked confused, but smiled slightly. "Alright. I guess I'll see you around."

"Night, David."

"Goodnight, Izzie."

"Who was that?" Lola asked as I caught up to them.

"Yeah, Izzie, who was that?" Carlos chimed in.

"Oh, no one," I said. "He just helped me deliver the hat."

They both cocked their heads at me and narrowed their eyes – an irritating family habit.

"He helped you deliver the hat? What in the world would you need help for?" Lola asked, her skinny arms sticking out unattractively from her hips.

"I got lost."

"In a theatre? For goodness sake, Izzie, are you really that helpless?"

"Oh, come off it, Lola. Stop pestering her," Carlos said.

"Oh please, Carlos, can't you see she's lying to us?"

"I'm not lying!" I cried.

"You're becoming a real spoilsport, Lola, you know that?"

Carlos's last comment definitely put Lola in an even more cantankerous mood.

"Come on," she said, flipping her hair angrily. "Let's go."

I didn't tell them about Jack and David's plan. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of shame, perhaps out of selfishness.

"Really, Izzie, who was that boy?" Lola asked in a whisper after we had walked a good distance away from the building.

"No one, Lola, I promise."

"I don't know what's going on with you, Izzie," she said, looking me over distrustfully in the darkness. "You've been seeing quite a few boys lately. It's not like you."

I threw up my arms and raised my voice, making her jump. "It's not like I seek them out, Lola, they find me! Look, it's over and I don't want to talk about it, alright? I just want to get home."

Lola didn't talk to me for the rest of the evening. She didn't need to, really, because Carlos took it upon himself to regale us with stories of his most recent date. An Irish girl, he said, and the rest I paid no attention to. I was too busy thinking about "the proposition." Would I be able to pull it off?

Would there be rats in jail?

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><p><strong>AN:** An OOC canon? Anachronism? Like it? Let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

A very special thanks to Austra, Paisley-the-Flower-girl and stress for their cheerful reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>The night the three of us walked home from Irving Hall the stars were shining more brightly than usual – truly a veritable ballet of burning gas. When my father and I first came to New York, I noticed that it was pretty easy to forget about the stars, what with all the lights masking the city at night. Not the case in Camaguey – the stars were always out and dancing amongst themselves, daring anyone to try to map their adventures.<p>

Many people would have taken such a sight as a good omen, an uncommon sign of prosperity to come. Not for me – it may seem odd, but I believe I may be the only person in the world who doesn't appreciate stars.

Why? Probably because ever since I was a little girl in Cuba and beheld the stars so far removed it made me feel small. Small as a dancing fly on a giant circus tent; small as a solitary seed in a field of rollicking grass; small as a little girl with big dreams echoing silently into the endless night sky.

That's why I don't like stars. It was a relief to come to New York and not have to contemplate such peculiar ideas. So when I saw those stars as Carlos and Lola walked me home, I started to feel small again.

I felt small, and I started to doubt myself.

I had spent all of Sunday pondering the prudence of realizing what Jack Kelly and David Jacobs had proposed. I was a girl, I was a delivery mule for a millinery, and I was Cuban. All the characteristics they looked for in a protagonist for their plan were precisely the things I was convinced would prevent me from succeeding. How could a foreign low-class delivery girl convince one of the most powerful men in New York that he was wrong?

Also, I was worried about what Lola would say. I can see your eyes rolling now, and I can't fairly blame you. Perhaps I put too much stock in her opinion, but she was my best friend. I had spent the better part of three years following her around the city, and to abandon the habit wasn't work of a minute's notice.

If I was going to follow through with Jack and David's plan – successful or not – I knew there was no way I could hide it from Lola, at least for very long. We spent half of our waking hours together, and she had always been able to spot one of my lies from a mile and a half away.

What made the situation even worse was her disdain for my potential accomplices. A while back, I was witness to some of her talk about newsies, and she had made it abundantly clear she was not fond of them. A snarky remark and a betterthanyou glare had said quite enough. I never quite understood what it was about them she despised so much, but I didn't really want to know.

Monday morning arrived and I tiptoed oh so delicately into the millinery, hoping to sneak past Caroline Woods before she noticed I had turned up. As I closed the door with intense care, two click-clacks behind me informed me I had failed.

"Well, Isabel," she said, waiting for me to turn and face her. "I am quite surprised. You must have made a rare good impression on Ms. Larkson, as she has requested another hat to be made."

I know that most people would appreciate such an atypical compliment, but I was no fool. Any type of attention, negative or positive, singled me out in Caroline Woods's eyes, which meant my behavior would be subject to yet more scrutiny. With Caroline Woods it was always better to remain undetected.

"Oh, uh… I'm very glad to hear that, Ms. Woods."

She pursed her lips and ran her eyes up and down me like a prize pig. I had the feeling she knew exactly what I was trying to do, and plotting how to trip me up. I tried to stay as still as possible – maybe she wouldn't notice my shaking hands.

"Off to work, then," she said, shooing me off with a wave.

I was only too happy to get out of her way.

I finished the day and managed to avoid my employer's wrath, but was still confounded by the decision I hadn't decided yet to take. I have always considered it amusing (and terrible) how a person can spend days and days going over everything in their head, and they might never come up with an answer – a human state (unfortunately) especially true for me.

I left the millinery and walked. I walkedandwalkedandwalked in circles like a fool, puzzling if I should go to Tibby's or continue on with my quiet, but safe, life. I didn't doubt that if I didn't show up at Tibby's Jack would find me somehow, but it was easier to avoid him in my own territory than to convince him I wasn't the right girl for his plan.

A boy of about 11 passed me and asked if I wanted a shoe shine. I instinctively looked down at my scuffed shoes and looked back at him, hoping he'd see the futility of the question. He didn't, and I was forced to shamefacedly reject his offer. He shrugged and walked away, his shoe-shine box thunking heavily against his bony thigh.

In the end, it was the rain that decided for me (or so I would like to believe). Torrents of tepid water hailed down from the sky a mere 10 minutes later, soaking my dress and further mussing up my shoes. I was disappointed to realize that I had walked too far away from the millinery to go back, and home was in the complete opposite direction. After a few wet moments, I finally decided to go to Tibby's.

I know, I know – I could have stayed under an awning to wait out the storm and then trek all the way back home. I could have avoided what fate had put in front of me, but I took the timely rain as a sign. A sign that I should drop my usual excuses and do something good for someone other than myself.

(In case you were wondering, Carlos, my infinite guide, had informed me where Tibby's was located. That one cost me a handful of my favorite taffy.)

I sloshed in my dank shoes until I got to the restaurant. Sure enough, standing just outside the restaurant door, safe and dry under the awning, was my friend, Cowboy Kelly.

"Nice of ya to show up," he said, barely looking up from under the brim of his hat.

"Yeah, well, the rain…" I started to say and didn't finish, realizing he wasn't interested.

"Well, go on," he said, looking at me expectantly. "Davey's in there already."

I bit my lip and went inside.

Sure enough, there was David sitting at a booth near a window with a kid that couldn't have been older than seven. They didn't look too much alike, but I figured he was David's brother from the look of naïve determination on his face.

I must confess here that the kid made me nervous. Firstly, I was not expecting additional persuaders and secondly, I'm not very good with kids. Growing up as an only child made it so that I don't relate to kids younger than me. _Any_ kid younger than me. I don't do babytalk and I certainly don't feel comfortable talking to them like adults, hence the dilemma. Lola would always laugh under her breath at that problem of mine.

I looked around the room before taking my seat, searching for other newsie-like young men they had brought to increase the pressure. I found none.

David nodded with a slight smile to me as I sat down warily at the booth he and his brother were occupying. Jack slid into the seat across from me, sticking the younger one in the midst of a newsie sandwich. I couldn't help but feel like a key witness amongst such a mealtime jury.

I didn't say anything after I sat down. Truth was, I didn't know what to say. So I sat, hoping someone would make the first move. I couldn't help looking at the kid across from me. I tried not to, to avoid having to introduce myself to him, but those brown eyes…Luckily for me, David take it upon himself to introduce us.

"Oh, this is my brother, Les."

I nodded.

"I'm near ten," the kid said, a goofy smile on his face. "But Jack says I should tell people I'm seven."

"That's nice," I said. I scratched my suddenly-itchy neck.

"Who are you?"

I stumbled. Of course he would ask. "Oh… I'm Izzie."

"What kind of a name is that?"

"Les, stop bothering her," David said, saving me from a full on neck-scratch attack.

"Whaddya want?" Jack said, motioning to a waiter that passed by the table.

"Oh," I said, forgetting we were sitting in a restaurant, "sorry… yes, whatever you're having."

He turned and talked low to the waiter. Almost immediately a plate of food was brought to the table. One plate of food.

"Oh," I said to the waiter, who had already turned around, "I think you forgot their food."

"We ain't eatin'," Jack said.

Surely noting the awkwardness of the situation, the waiter turned and left immediately.

"What do you mean?"

"What I said. We ain't eatin'."

I couldn't help myself from looking at David pleadingly.

"Here, I can share –"

"I told ya, we ain't eatin', so relax."

"I can send it back – "

"What, and waste it?"

He had me there. If there was one thing my father taught me, it was never to waste food. I looked desperately at David, who simply looked uncomfortable.

I sighed and picked at my food with a fork. I wasn't particularly hungry, but after the scene I just made I knew I couldn't leave the plate untouched.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Jack said, leaning back against the booth and pushing his hands across the table in front of him.

David turned to me. "So, what do you say?" he asked.

I pulled at my thumb web under the table.

"I don't know."

Silence. Then, "Whaddya mean, ya don't know?" Jack asked with dark eyes. "What are ya here for then, huh?"

"Well, I just wanted to explain –"

"Explain what?" he said, leaning forward towards the table. "Explain how yer gonna chicken out on us?"

"Jack," David interrupted. "Let her –"

"No," he said. "She knows exactly why she's here. She's already made her decision, Davey. So tell us, Cuba," he said, glaring in my direction, "ya gonna back out?"

I had never been so spoken to before in my life – probably because I had never been in such a mess of trouble. I could feel the sting of his words entwine itself through my ribs. Those damn snakes of guilt.

"Look, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not who you think," I said, hoping my eyes were more convincing than my words. "I mean, I'm not the kind of girl for this stuff. I barely speak English for God's sake!"

David leaned on the table.

"We know it's not easy," he said, "but we wouldn't be asking you if we didn't think you could help us."

I glared at the both of them, my eyes passing over the brown-eyed boy in the middle. "And what makes me so perfect for this mission?"

"Well," David said, his concentrating his eyes on me, "first of all, you're Cuban. It wouldn't faze Pulitzer at all if a newsie tried to talk to him about the war in Cuba – we're irrelevant. Secondly, you're a girl."

Seeing my glare, he tried to recover.

"What I mean is, Pulitzer would be more likely to listen to a girl than some dirty newsie. Girls have…"

David looked at Jack for the right word, but his friend folded his arms and turned his head.

"Well, you know what I mean."

I nodded.

"Look, Cuba," Jack said, unfolding his arms and placing his hands on the edge of the table. "Do ya think any of us wants to do this? We don't. Before we risk everythin' and blow out this strike, we gotta know if there's a better way. We gotta know if you can convince Pulitzer to change his mind before we send a bunch of kids to their defeat."

I pulled my hands up from below the table and entangled my fingers, thinking hard on what they had said.

"Please, lady," a soft voice said across from me. It was David's kid brother, who had up until then remained unusually silent. "Our papa is hurt and sellin' papes is all we got."

He was the kid with those dark brown eyes, just like Marisol's. He was the kid sitting next to David, the kid who was his brother. The kid that looked just like all the kids I'd seen walking into the factories every morning.

He wasn't crying – that would have repulsed me immediately – but his eyes did me something awful. I couldn't look at them for more than a second – that brown, that same Marisol brown – before the gut-wrenching, body-aching guilt came on.

Jack patted the kid on the head as if to silence him. Then he turned to me.

"This is yer chance to change things, Izzie," he said, using my name for the first time that night. "This ain't somethin' that comes around every day. We can't make ya do it, but you'd be crazy not to."

I looked at Davey and Jack, specifically avoiding those small, dark brown eyes. I thought about my job, my friends, my family… I thought about history, I thought about life. Who knew there were so many things to consider?

I smiled at the empty sound of food-grimed clay dishes clanking.

"I'll do it," I said, hastily adding, "I can't promise anything, but I'll at least try. But if I'm going to do this," I said, looking steadily between Jack and David, "there have to be precautions."

Jack and David looked at each other. From the looks on their faces I could have sworn they weren't expecting me to say yes.

"What are you thinking?" David asked.

I looked out the rain-spattered window for a moment, noting a woman with a gray umbrella crossing the street, mud dashing across her shoes.

"It has to be quiet," I said, still staring out the window. "My father can't ever find out about it, which means we need an escape plan, and a good one."

They nodded.

"But –" I said, thinking more deeply. "It's more than that. What is the plan if this talking with Pulitzer thing doesn't work? Where does that leave me?"

I saw Jack look at David, expecting him to reply. David seemingly understood the message, and began slowly.

"Well," he said, "I suppose we'll just keep doing what we've been doing. You can still help us, even if the plan doesn't work. If Pulitzer refuses to listen to you, we can still use you as a public face to let the rest of the city know what a hypocrite he is. We'd need a few more of your… compatriots, though."

I looked down at the table, noting each knot of wood that disrupted the fine lines of grain running across it.

"And my father will never know?"

Jack smirked and stuck out his hand across the table. "And yer father will never know."

I shook his hand with a smile.

"We'll do it tomorrow," he said. "Davey and I got it all worked out. Meet us here at four o'clock."

We all stood up from the table and walked to the door.

"Pleasure doin' business with ya," Jack said, tipping his hat to me. "It's a pretty good deal, ya know. A fool-proof escape plan in exchange for your kindly participation."

"We'll see how good of a deal it is tomorrow," I said, shaking my head.

Jack nodded and exited the door.

"It's going to work," David said to me, helping his brother adjust his coat. "It's gotta."

"Let's hope so, Davey. Let's hope so."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>Joseph Pulitzer reigned in my dreams that night – an odd fact, considering I had never seen the man. My tired and perverted mind drew a figure, tall and brooding, with knife-sharp pens for fingers and a face covered in ashy ink. His ever-extending arms reached after me even after I had fled the carriage, chasing me through the etherized Manhattan night.<p>

I woke up sweating and cursing David Jacobs and Jack Kelly.

The next day at the millinery went exactly as you would have imagined. As the day wore on, it became increasingly likely that I would unintentionally destroy the entire shop with my epic ineptitude.

On a normal day, my pride would have been hanging as a souvenir above Caroline Woods's desk long before I left the shop. To my salvation, she didn't come that day. Was destiny telling me something, or what?

The day before she had said something along the lines of visiting a friend, but my delirious happiness at her potential absence prevented me from listening further. I was free that day, and thank goodness. I had thinking to do – a great detriment to a looming stack of hat boxes, let me tell you.

I still wasn't particularly thrilled at the thought of sneaking into a millionaire's carriage, and the thought of being thrown into a flea-ridden, rat-infested, diseased cell with a bunch of hardened criminals was worse. To keep my spirits up (as much as possible), I tried to convince myself that these newsies knew what they were doing. After all, Jack had proven he knew his way in and out of the city. That was enough to prove he must know something about last-minute escapes, right?

"Just get out of here, Izzie!"

I left the shop as fast as I could. Helen calling me by my nickname was about as common as stumbling across a field mouse in a top hat taking tea with the Queen, even when she was angry.

It was a quarter to four. I had fifteen minutes to spare, which was an unfortunate fact. Fifteen minutes to think of all the horrible possibilities to which the plan could lead. Fifteen minutes to think about the look of horror on my father's face when the police arrived at our door to tell him that his daughter was a wanted criminal. Fifteen minutes to think of murder plots for both Cowboy Kelly and Curly-Haired Davey if they failed to get me out of this safely. Who would have known there was so much to think about in fifteen minutes?

Concluding that distraction was better than plotting murders, I walked in the direction of Tibby's. A girl with red shoes passed by and I thought of Lola. I had told her that I wasn't going to meet her today, and I wondered if she suspected anything. Would she know I was traipsing around behind her back with a couple of newsies? I hoped not. She wouldn't be happy about that.

I arrived at Tibby's. The restaurant looked so benevolent during the day, much different from the dark atmosphere of plotting it had the night before.

"Ya ready?"

I jumped, lost in my thoughts. Jack and David were standing there when I turned around and I felt my stomach lurch. I realized I had unconsciously hoped they wouldn't show.

"As ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

I noticed David was carrying a basket in his arms. It was a particularly feminine basket, covered in what looked like a white pillowcase.

"I hope that's not yours," I said, eyeing the basket.

David looked down at the basket, then back at me.

"Actually, it's for you."

I guffawed. "What in the world for?"

"Come on," he said, motioning his head towards a nearby alley. "We'll explain everything."

The alley was surprisingly lighter than most, and a bit cleaner. Jack led us over to where a stack of wooden boxes were leaning against a wall, hiding us from passersby. It was a terribly criminal scene, from which I was desperate to get out.

David removed the white fabric that was covering the basket. I looked inside.

"Flowers?" I asked. "What, do you plan to attack Pulitzer with pollen?"

David sighed. "We're not attacking Pulitzer, you know that. We're just trying to… persuade him. The plan is for you to carry these flowers and make like you're selling them. It's your disguise. This way you'll look less…"

"Like a criminal?" I offered.

"Like a loiterer. Here," he said, pulling out some dark fabric from underneath the already wilting flowers. "This is for you too."

I looked at what was in his hands and scoffed. "A cape? You don't think that will raise any doubts? Ah, yes, of course, a witch selling flowers. Nothing suspicious here."

Jack sighed and hung his head against his palm. David paid no attention to my bad mood. "It's not for right now, it's for when you're in the carriage. Everything is pretty dark in there. Just put this on and cover yourself – it'll give you a few minutes before Pulitzer realizes you're there."

"You mean before he throws me out on my face?"

"Quit the attitude, Cuba," Jack said, taking his hand from his face. "We ain't forcin' ya to do this. We gave ya the chance to back out and ya didn't. Ya got nobody to blame but yerself."

"We don't have time to fight about this," David said, looking right at me mid-retort. "We've planned it all out and everything is going to be fine."

I took a deep breath. "Fine. What's next?"

"All right, first things first," David started, looking between Jack and me. "Pulitzer leaves the building at around five o'clock. Jack and I have been tracking him for a couple days. The carriage always arrives fifteen minutes before five o'clock and waits for Pulitzer outside the building."

"People?" I asked, hoping for a simple answer.

"As far as we know, a valet and a driver, but there may be some guards inside the building."

I heard myself whistle as I sucked in the air too fast.

"Here's the plan," David said, eyeing me to make sure I wouldn't interrupt. "Jack and I will spook the horses to distract the valet and the driver. You go to the other side of the carriage where they can't see you. Open the door as quietly as you can and get inside. They won't hear or feel you sneaking into the carriage with all the bumping of the horses."

"You'll make sure they're distracted?"

"Just worry about Pulitzer, all right?" Jack said. "We'll do the rest."

David reached his head up to look out over the boxes and then turned to me. "They'll be distracted, but you're still going to have to be quiet. Look around before you get in and make sure no one's watching."

"Then what?" I asked, dreading – yet already knowing – the answer.

"Then you wait for Pulitzer."

Easier said than done.

"But what if he doesn't come? What if something goes wrong?" I asked, ironically concerned that I _wouldn__'__t_ meet Pulitzer.

"Izzie," David said exasperatedly grabbing my shoulders and facing me head on, "calm down. If something goes wrong, we'll figure it out."

I took a deep breath and reached my arm out to steady myself against the brick wall next to me.

"And if the police come?"

Jack folded his arms and considered me seriously for the first time that day. "Ya get out of that carriage as fast as ya can and run 'cross the street. There's an alley between the bookstore and the bakery with a ladder on the right side, so ya climb it."

"What if they follow me?"

"When ya get to the top you'll be able to run along the roofs, so do it. Don't –" he said warningly, holding his hand up against my unvoiced objection, "ask any more questions. Just run. Ya know how to do that, right?"

I nodded while scratching my neck.

"So ya know what ya gotta do, Cuba?" he asked, looking straight into my eyes.

"I hope so."

"Then let's go."

Jack led the way, walking casually out of the alley. I stood up to follow, but David held me back. Once Jack was a safe distance away, David nudged me to take my turn.

I walked hesitantly out of the alley, my head held deceptively high. I was hopeful to be putting on a good act, but I knew that had a passerby looked more carefully, he would have noted the masked look of terror curling just around my eyes.

The World building was located right in the middle of Newspaper Row, looming tall with its like-minded neighbors above the surrounding street vendors and apartment buildings groveling humbly at its feet. Its golden tower stood high above even the tall surrounding buildings and I wondered what it felt like, sitting up at the very top, looking down on everyone as small as fruit flies.

I cringed - a person shouldn't get used to that.

It was now nearing a quarter to five and sure enough, the carriage was sitting right outside the building, waiting for its rider to grace it with his presence.

Jack, David and I were standing behind a wall of a nearby building, gauging the situation. I could see no obvious danger, but I knew from instinct that such a relief was often a false one. After all, how many times had war sprung out of relative peace?

We stood watching as the valet exited the building and placed himself regally next to the door Pulitzer was sure to enter. The driver was not as preoccupied with appearances, made clear by shamelessly picking his nose.

"All right," David said in a whisper. "Go ahead."

I lifted the basket and accommodated the handle into the crook of my elbow. I stood up slowly, feeling the nervous energy in my bones. My head said stay, but my feet sent me forward. I contorted my face into a half-smile as I walked toward the building – not so ridiculous as to cause suspicion, but not so suspicious as to be ridiculous.

"Buenas tardes, señor," I said, holding out my basket just enough so he could see the flowers but not the cloak. "¿Le puedo interesar en comprar una rosa?"

Why did I ask him to buy a flower in Spanish? Well, because it's unlikely that a girl who can't even speak the same language would be in cahoots with the newsies.

The man, who had been puttering with the horses' reins, looked up. He regarded me and I saw his eyebrows weave wickedly.

"What?" he said gruffly, still holding the reins. "Speak English."

"¿Disculpe, señor? No le entiendo."

That confused him more, which in turn agitated him more.

"Get outta here, kid, 'fore I call the bulls on ya."

I was about to walk away with the same giddy smile on my face when I made the mistake of looking one of the horses in the eye. Chocolate eyes framed with feathery eyelashes I never knew horses had. Those damn chocolate eyes that reminded me of Les... and Marisol. I quickly turned my head away and walked towards the valet.

"¿Y usted, señor?" I asked the valet, whom I had seen out of the corner of my eye watch the exchange with curiosity.

"I'm afraid I do not speak Spanish, my dear," he said. "Are you selling flowers?"

"No hablo inglés, señor, pero quizás le gustaría comprar algunas flores para su esposa?" I asked as fast as I could, pushing the flower basket closer to him. I prayed I was a better actress than I thought I was.

"No, no, thank you," he said, putting his hands up in a universal gesture of apology. "I'm sorry."

I gave him a genuine smile as I walked away. A stab of guilt hit me right in the gut – it was unfortunate that such a polite man would soon be the brunt of a cruel trick for which he would surely be punished.

I looked around quickly to see if anyone would notice, and slipped behind the other side of the carriage. The customers on the opposite street could clearly see me, but I hoped by some miracle I would become invisible. I had to get inside that carriage.

Already used to keeping my dazed smile, I walked slowly toward the door. I checked to make sure the cloak was still in the basket – it was, like poison at the bottom of a cup. The door handle looked simple enough, a simple tug would appear to do, but I had to wait until Jack and David set their part of the plan in motion.

I was thankful I didn't have to wait long before I heard a shout. I had to look out of the corner of the opposite window to see I saw a dash of red and the brim of Jack's hat galloping quickly towards the horses. From the following flash of blue, I could tell David was closely behind. What were they doing? I couldn't get a good enough look to see.

Just as I was about to bend dangerously around the corner of the carriage to see what was going on, the horses reared. Now, I don't know about you, but I've never been around a horse, period, much less an angry horse. I was instantly desperate to get inside the carriage to get away from their awful screams.

The entire carriage hurled forward for a moment, and I could hear the driver yelling profanities in all directions. Jack and David finally passed in front of the carriage enough so that I could see they were playing on a fight. Jack had tried to escape David's wrath (ha!) and almost ran right into the horses.

I looked the window to the other side: the valet was gone.

Now was my shot. I wasn't going to get another.

The next time the horses hurled the carriage upwards, I tugged the door open as quietly as I could. Hearing no alarm ring, a second later I stepped into the carriage and closed it just as quietly. I could still hear the ruckus outside, but the noises ebbed pleasantly.

I looked around and realized that Jack and David had really planned everything quite well. The inside of the carriage was dark, despite the early hour. Velvet black curtains hung on the windows, not unlike the funeral carriages I had seen cross the dusty streets back home.

I took the cloak out of the basket, careful not to drop any of the decoy flowers. I trembled at the thought. What would Pulitzer do if he saw a solitary rose sitting on his seat? Oh dear, better put my imagination to rest for a moment.

I pulled the cloak over me entirely, covering my face just enough to cause a shadow. I moved closer to the curtain in the hopes of disappearing further inside that dark prison.

I looked discreetly out the window and saw Jack and David running off, but not without a few men chasing after them. As much as I wanted to focus on my own well-being (or lack thereof), I felt the pangs of worry stir in my belly.

And so began the waiting game, yet again.

I allowed myself no movement, for fear the unhappy leather beneath me would give away my hiding place. I put the flower basket at my feet and covered it with the cloak, hoping it wouldn't trip me if I was forced to leap out of the moving vehicle.

I held my breath as the valet resumed his post outside the window. He turned his head to the left, and I was convinced I had been spotted. It was only a matter of moments, I told myself, before he turned around fully to see that I was inside. The same little flower girl he had seen only moments before. Surely he would be smart enough to put the fiasco outside and the strange foreign girl together and realize that a plot was afoot.

But he didn't. He turned his head back towards the building, and did not look back ever again.

I was relieved, but I sure didn't let my held breath go. I turned my head forward, thinking that perhaps my face would be less visible. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping and praying that maybe everything was a dream - maybe I was still sleeping, my father still making breakfast, Caroline Woods still scolding me, Lola still bossing me.

From my place in the corner, sheltered behind the curtain, I heard the door open.

"Just this way, Mr. Pulitzer. Please, watch your step, sir."

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><p><strong>AN: **Interesting? Not interesting? I would love to know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you so very much to everyone who has reviewed so far - I appreciate your thoughts and comments!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>When I think of Joseph Pulitzer now, the first thing that comes to my mind is the smell of cigars. Well-rolled cigars, tight as a blanketed newborn baby, made with the finest tobacco available, which, naturally, must have come from Cuba. It was a comforting smell, the smell my father had come home with every day for the past three years. I breathed in the scent as deeply as I could without arousing the suspicion of the man next to me.<p>

He grumbled impatiently as he got into the carriage, despite receiving a warm welcome from his sickeningly loyal valet. I couldn't help but picture the same scene happening every day, in exactly the same way. Couldn't he at least say thank you, just to liven things up a bit?

His body pressed down on the seat and I froze. I worried that some part of me would squeak against the immaculately polished leather and give me away. As I was still facing forward, I couldn't turn to see if he had noticed me, and I wasn't about to risk the whole plan just to check. I used whatever faculties I could to get an idea of what kind of a man he was. His weight moved the seat just enough so that I knew he wasn't frail, but that he wasn't a complete bull either. The smell of cigars told me he was a serious man. His phlegmy voice confirmed my suspicion of years of smoking and further indicated a man of middle age. That was enough – I didn't want to know any more.

I heard the valet close the door and although I couldn't see him do it, I pictured a cockamamie, half-witted grin on his face as Pulitzer scowled his farewell. He grunted a few more times, which made me terribly uncomfortable. I desperately wanted to offer him my handkerchief or at least a whispered "bless you," but I couldn't risk it. And what would I do if he coughed up spit all over me? Nothing, but that was the worst.

The carriage hadn't even moved yet and my muscles hurt. I had never used my muscles so much before in my life as when I tried _not_ to move. I felt the cramping coming on, coupled with the tingling in my legs and bit my tongue, hoping the local pain would be worse than the cricks throughout my body.

"Go!" my host yelled, nearly sending me flying in surprise. Out of habit when someone yells, I sat up straighter and then mentally smacked myself for doing so. I tried to counsel myself that no matter what he did, I wasn't to respond. I was going to have to expect anything if this was going to work.

His voice must have reached the bulbous driver, because I heard the quick snap of the reins and felt the carriage lurch forward. Although my head didn't move, my eyes darted around the darkness of my cloak at the unfamiliarity of the sensation.

Pulitzer cleared his throat again and I could feel the bile rising from my stomach. I didn't know how much more tobacco-flavored hacking I could take, never mind the fact I would have to face it again when I got home. If I didn't say something soon, it would all be vomitously over.

I breathed deeply and my lungs felt ready to explode. The carriage was trotting along at a regular pace, and Pulitzer's coughing had quieted. My legs still tingled and I could feel my fingers dance unwittingly across my palms. The globular behind of the driver was plainly visible through the front window, bouncing as the wheels traversed the cobblestone streets. It was time, and there was no going back.

As slowly as I could, I pulled the curtain that was nearly covering me away from my form. I turned my head slowly towards my comate, finally getting a good look at him. He was looking straight ahead and hadn't appeared to have noticed my movement.

For all intents and purposes, he wasn't an ugly man. His hair was wispy, but his substantial beard compensated sufficiently, keeping his head from floating off. Although shaped like a hawk's beak, his nose had a strange dignity about it, like that was precisely how he wanted it to look. I further confirmed my inference that he was a serious man from the wrinkles that lined his face. A joyous man has cheerful folds only around his eyes as a result of years of smiling. A serious man has wrinkles likewise around the eyes as in between them: a result of many hours spent in brow-furrowing thought and of squinting to read what had just been written.

His wire glasses were thin, and deceptively made me think of an old man. He certainly wasn't the youngest self-made man in New York, but it would likewise be a mistake to call him feeble. I could see the strength of his youth in his face, even amidst the dunes of wrinkles.

For a second my fear disappeared, as Joseph Pulitzer's face melded into my father's. The same wrinkles, the same signs of a life hard-earned, the same sooty cigar smell. I relaxed. If I was going to talk to a man who was like my father, how hard could it possibly be?

My fear returned in a flash. I saw him scowl at what appeared to be a pause in our journey, and I knew in my mind I had turned him into someone he wasn't. My father was my father, and this man… was Joseph Pulitzer, newsie scammer extraordinaire. I waited until his scowl passed and he settled back again into the seat.

I sent up one last silent prayer, hoping it would break through the roof of the coffin-like carriage, and I cleared my throat.

I have to give him credit: whereas many people would have been frightened out of their wits at a carriage stowaway, he simply sat up straighter. He took his time in turning to regard me, but I wasn't fooled – I saw the angry flash in his eyes. I was grateful, however, that he didn't immediately try to throttle me. The difficult part came next. Where to begin?

"Excuse me... Mr. Pulitzer," I said, lifting my face slightly so he could see my feminine (or what should have been) features. "I, uh… I would like to speak with you about an important matter."

I could feel my cheeks heat with the complete and utter insanity of what I was doing. Who in their right mind hijacks a carriage carrying perhaps one of the most important men in New York? What was he planning as he looked at me? Where were Jack and David? Why was I doing this?

He didn't say anything and I could feel my hands shaking under the cloak. Seeing the futility (and quite frankly, rudeness) of disguising myself, I uncovered my face with trembling fingers.

It was an awkward situation, to say the least. Me looking at him, him looking at me. Me talking to him, him ignoring me. I couldn't deny that he had every right to be upset. Sure, he was a cruel dictator of the newspaper world, but a sane person wasn't supposed to do what I was doing. It just wasn't done.

I took another deep breath and tried again. "It's about the newsies, sir." I couldn't help the last bit of courteousness. He was a sir, no matter how much I disliked him and his policies. I hoped that my politeness covered the fear I felt in each and every one of my bones. I could hear them rattling - a real, live orchestra of calcium and marrow.

"Ah," he said, casually scratching his cheek with his index finger, "the newsies. Yes, I should have known they would try something like this."

I didn't know how to respond. He wasn't the head of one of the most successful newspapers in history for being naive. "Excuse me, sir?"

Beneath his woolly moustache I could see his upturned lip. "You're here to tell me I ought to lower the price of the newspapers, are you not?"

"Well, I suppose so, sir," I said, taking my eyes away from him and savoring the wash of relief. "You must know that the price hike is going to hurt them."

He regarded me again, but said nothing for a moment. "And, my dear, you are a newsie as well?" he asked. His finger had moved from his cheek to his moustache and proceeded to twirl it like wool.

"Well, no, sir. I'm from Cuba," I said, as if it explained everything.

"I see," he said, condescension burning through his words. "Then, why, may I ask, are you here?"

It was my chance to prove I wasn't completely useless. This was why they picked me out. This was why being from Cuba was so important.

"Because, sir, it's not fair. After all you wrote about Cuba, it's just not fair to treat the newsies that way."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm afraid I am not following your logic."

"Well, sir, you must remember the war in Cuba last year. I believe you published several articles about it."

His expression changed, subtly, but perceptibly. The wrinkles between his eyes knitted yet more closely together, and I saw the right corner of his mouth twitch in irritation.

"Yes, I recall a collection of articles I published on the independence fighters in that country."

"Well, sir, then you'll remember that you specifically called for the United States to intervene on behalf of the Cubans, to save them from the cruelty of their colonizers."

The wrinkles became and even more tightly-woven fabric of skin. "And what does this have to do with the newsies?"

"You're abusing the newsies like the colonizers abused the Cubans. In your articles you called for justice and courage and now you're perpetrating injustice and poverty."

I watched him carefully when I was finished. I knew what I said had the opportunity to either change his mind or turn him in a raging bull. Unfortunately, it ended up being the latter.

"Tell me," he said after a moment, folding his hands carefully in his lap. "Is there any good reason why I shouldn't stop this carriage right now and have the police arrest you on the spot?"

I sucked in the air too quickly and gave a visible gasp. It wasn't from surprise as he must have thought, but rather from fearful expectation.

"Mr. Pulitzer, I only want to stop this fighting. The newsies strike can't be good for your business. With so many boys not working your paper has to find other, slower sellers to do what the strikers used to do faster and better. If you'd just listen to me, sir, you could have all your newsies back."

He leaned back against the seat and turned a critical eye on me. I could feel the straining tension of the leather as he moved. There were several different directions our conversation could take from that point, and most of them would end badly for me. The carriage continued at its regular pace and I was frankly surprised Pulitzer hadn't immediately called for the driver to stop. I held out a spark of hope that maybe I had gotten through to his conscience.

"You are from Cuba?" he asked with faint curiosity hidden in his voice, after moments of interminable silence.

"Yes, sir."

"Then, my dear," he said, his finger back to the wisps of his moustache, "you should be grateful I published what I did. This country would have never agreed to war if it hadn't been for my attention. Now, considering the favor I have done for you, it is very bold of you to interrupt my daily return home for such a mere matter as the newsie strike; however, I have a fondness in my old heart for your country and I will let you go without a word to the police. I must warn you," he said, leaning towards me, his face becoming ashier by the minute, "that if I find you further involved in this strike, I will not hesitate to give you the punishment you deserve."

I didn't have a chance to agree to his terms before he knocked on the front window of the carriage, a clear signal for the driver to stop. He allowed me a moment to put my cape back into the bottom of my flower basket.

"Clever," I heard him murmur to himself.

I saw the squat driver jump off his seat and walk over to Pulitzer's side of the carriage. I opened the door and stepped out, just as he opened the door to ask his passenger if there was a problem. We shared no parting words. I walked away as unassumingly as possible from the vehicle, my hands folded demurely and my head facing down.

The flower basket was growing heavier by the second in my arm. I wanted desperately to crawl into an alley and be swallowed by the grease and dust. I had failed my mission. There was nothing left to do. I had tried my best, and my best wasn't enough. Could I have done more? I'll leave that to the historians to figure out.

I didn't dare look back at the carriage. I was afraid I would see that face, regal in its experience, frightening in its determination, staring back at me, mocking my foolish attempt at justice.

My self-disparagement was sharply interrupted by a police whistle. I circled around to see where the noise was coming from, and saw Pulitzer standing outside his carriage, the driver pointing at me and two police officers running in my direction. His face looked like a dead man's: his eyes were hauntingly hollow and his skin ashen. I wondered at how he ever resembled my father.

Without thinking, my feet sounded off against the street (at least some part of me knew what they were doing). Where to, I wasn't entirely sure, but I knew it wasn't time to question my instincts. I let them take me wherever they deemed best, and hoped they (or I) wouldn't get injured in the process.

My walk of shame would have to wait.


	8. Chapter 8

A special thanks to Austra for her review!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>Runrunrun as fast as you can.<p>

I was forced to remember the irony of my life: I was a delivery girl, constantly hurrying from place to place, yet I hated running. I did not relish the stickiness and acrid smell of sweat or the aching muscles that came after running a little too far. They simply were not things to be enjoyed.

My silent complaints fell on deaf ears as I ran away from the horrible probability of jail. That rotten bugger Pulitzer. I should have seen through those deceiving kindly-looking wrinkles – I would have found the schemer inside, the man that not only cheated kids out of hard-earned money, but laughed all the way to the bank.

The policemen ran heavily behind me – from what I could tell they were a good twenty feet behind. I was suddenly thankful to Caroline Woods for having sent me all over Manhattan with a hatbox in hand and only minutes to spare for an on-time delivery. My legs had been preparing for a day like this and I hadn't even known.

Despite my practice, my lungs were still burning from the concentrated effort of escaping my pursuers' grubby hands. I could feel each fiber of muscle expanding and contracting in my legs as they moved, and I knew I would have an abominable soreness later.

I wondered later what everyone shopping in the streets thought as I passed by, chased by two policemen. I didn't have time to think of it in the moment, but how their faces must have looked! The only thing I could concentrate on was the direction from whence we had come in the carriage so I could find that blasted ladder Jack had mentioned.

_Speaking __of __Jack_, I thought, nearly crashing into the baker with his basket of bread, _where__ the __heck __were __he __and __David?_ Why was I running, all by myself, away from the man they wanted to get to? It all seemed so unfair. So very, very unfair.

I neatly missed crashing into an unsuspecting woman carrying her baby and a basket of fruit. She screeched as I neared her, and only just in time did I skip around her and her cargo. My swiftness helped her not, however, for as soon as I had passed, one of the faster-than-I-had-anticipated policemen ran right into her. I could hear the bruising thud of the fruit on the cobblestones, angry shouting and apologetic murmuring as I ran on, hoping the other would stop and help he who had fallen.

I took one dangerous glance behind me, hoping that perhaps they had been forced to abandon their chase. I smiled as I saw the fatter of the two bending down and helping the woman, who was standing righteously above him and ordering him to pick up the fruit from the ground and place them gently into her basket once again. I was so concentrated on the scene that I nearly forgot about the other. A sharp whistle and a "Stop, you!" brought me back around, and I noticed he was now about fifteen feet away from me.

I snapped my head back, looking around wildly for the World building. I expected to see its gold bravura from the street, but I came upon nothing other than the regular humdrum buildings one was used to seeing around the city. There was no sign of The World, and there was no sign of my newspaper-selling companions. I pondered the fairness of calling them such, as they had clearly abandoned me.

The policeman's shouts grew louder and my legs were beginning to ache from running so far and so fast. I never thought I would meet my sportive match, but he was tall and lanky: I quickly regretted underestimating his athletic prowess. He may have looked scrawny back at the carriage, but his legs were much longer than mine.

And then it happened. The worst thing that possibly could have happened, and what I profoundly feared in the back of my mind since hearing those whistles.

I tripped.

I tripped hard, and fell with a smack against the cobblestones, my hands doing their best to soften the blow under me. I thought I could hear the delighted grin of the man following me as I tried my hardest to pull myself up off the ground. As I pushed, I groaned and felt pain shoot up through my arm. There was a trail of blood running down my elbow. If I had broken something, I was merely thankful I couldn't see it, because the sight of a bone coming out of my skin would have knocked me out once and for all. The pain was gut-wrenching and suddenly I couldn't decide which was worse: having to continue on with the chase or being forced into a clammy jail cell.

Was it a miracle or fate? It could be either, neither or both, but I was saved. The two boys, whom I had imagined were eating happily in Tibby's, forgetting all about their forlorn foreign friend, pulled me up off the ground.

"Jeez, Cuba, ya really are clumsy," I heard Jack's voice say, somewhere around the vicinity of my head. I was already imagining that I was going to jail, and his voice sounded like a dream.

"Whaa?" I said, much to my embarrassment now.

I got no reply, because I was whisked off down an alley. The two boys ran on either side of me, and from the curly hair I could tell David was on my right. Well, my right or my left, depending on how you looked at it, because while they were running forward, I was facing behind.

I cocked my head stupidly at the sight of The World building, gently fading away as I was carried further down the alley. My view was unfortunately blocked by that skinny twig of a policeman, and I scowled, realizing where I was once again.

"Let me go! I can run myself!" I screamed, causing the two to drop my arms immediately. I turned toward the alley and in less than a second we were off again. Jack ran ahead and found the ladder on the right hand side of the alley, just like he had said.

"Come on, come on," he said, with a sweeping motion of his hand. "We ain't got time to mess around."

Who did he think he was talking to?

David reached him first, and Jack tried to push him up the ladder. David gave a bleat of protest, but he finally climbed up. I went next and Jack brought of the rear of our trio. It was an unfortunate place for Jack to be: not because of the trailing police officers, as one would imagine, but rather from my constant complaints that he had a clear view up my dress.

"I ain't lookin' anywhere!" he claimed, but I was not convinced.

"You better not be! If I catch you looking I'll –"

"Izzie, just shut up and climb!"

The building was taller than it had looked, and I imagined I was scaling the side of a bookstore catering to giants. The policeman looked like a paper doll below us and I almost laughed, but was scared once again as he cursed and threw up his arms as he ran toward us.

I let out an embarrassing squeal and stopped momentarily on the ladder.

"What the hell is wrong with ya, Cuba, keep goin'! " I heard Jack yell below me.

David was perhaps a bit more subtle. He turned and looked down at me, eyes pleading. "Please, Izzie, you have to keep going!"

I nodded and kept up the ladder, focusing my eyes on the brick wall in front of me. One hand after the other, one brick above the next, one rung left behind, and we finally made our way to the top of the building.

The time of day had completely flown over my head and I was shocked to see the sun setting over the tops of the buildings. It would have been a nice sight, unfortunate as the situation was, but I was pushed forward as soon as I stood up by an anxious Jack Kelly.

"Go!" he commanded, and I had no choice (no other good choice, that is) than to keep running. We dashed under clotheslines, tearing down more than a few starched sheets. I turned around to see how far we had come and nearly doubled over – David had a pair of silky undergarments on his head, flapping around like a sort of feminine hat. He growled when he saw me and I decided to be gracious and keep running.

At any moment I was expecting to hear gunshots ring out against the early evening sky, but what I heard was much worse. From behind I heard the expected whistle, but I didn't expect to hear ten more ring out below. How had they managed to catch up to us so quickly? Where had ten more police officers come from? I ran faster, because thinking made my panic worse.

In a minute, I was next to Jack. I had forgotten how fast he was since the first day we met and he brought me to Mrs. Parker's mansion. I almost cried at the thought that I would have happily welcomed one of her lectures at that moment. Only too happily.

"This way," Jack said, jerking his head to the left. He ran in front of me and I saw what he was planning. _No__ thinking,__ Isabel, __no __thinking. __Not __the __time __to __think. __So __stop. __It __won__'__t __do __any __good._

We jumped. Well, we all must have jumped, because we all made it to the next building with nothing more than a couple darkly unattractive bruises and a few rosy scratches, but I wasn't focused on "we" in that moment. I was focused on seeing an alley pass below me, in the slowest motion possible, as my legs sprawled out like an awkward chicken in front of me. I landed on my bum, and was embarrassed when David jumped next to me and had to pull me up. My bruised bottom was only second compared to my bruised pride.

I hoped the policeman would be too chicken to jump himself. We were daredevils, risk-takers, fools. What self-respecting police officer would do the same as a group of crazy kids, right?

Wrong, as usual. I heard a thud behind us and realized he had caught up quite quickly. I didn't dare turn around to face him, for that would waste more time and my nerves would slow my legs down, so I just kept on. I could tell David was getting tired: his breathing was growing heavier and heavier as the rooftops wore on and on. Were we even in Manhattan anymore? Strange how a city can look so different when you're on top of it.

"Davey!" I heard Jack yell from in front of me. "We've gotta hide in yer house!"

My head jerked towards David, who was a few feet behind me.

"No, Jack!" he said, and I could see the panic in his eyes. "I'm not going to get my family involved in this!"

I couldn't see Jack's face ahead of me, but I knew what it looked like. It was the same determined look he had when he cornered me in the theatre, cajoled me in the restaurant, and wheedled me in the alley. Pure, utter decision.

"We ain't got no choice, Davey. They're gonna follow us 'round all day if we don't. They know we're newsies – they'll go to the lodging house. Ya want them to catch everyone else, too?" I could feel David cringe. Hell, _I_ cringed. I didn't like being in the middle of their spat. "We'll do it fast. They'll never know where we went."

I stopped paying attention. Partly because I had no say in the matter, and mostly because we were coming up on a building that was much higher than the one we were on. Only if we had been monkeys would we have been able to scale that building, and I was confident we could not change species so quickly.

I stopped, skidding a bit across the roof. We were at the edge, and the only direction to go was down (see note above). David stopped next to me and looked across me at Jack, who was on my other side.

The only way across was to jump – onto the fire escape. Sure, we had hopped across the tops of buildings just minutes before, but not onto a flimsy wire ladder. Besides looking painfully feeble, there would be _three_ bodies on it, and from Jack's height I could tell my bony frame wouldn't compensate for much of anything.

"Stop!" It didn't take a genius to realize who was calling after us. The gravelly voice and pattering footsteps said enough.

I could feel David's breath against my neck. "Go," he said, and I felt myself being pushed forward.

I did the stupidest thing I could possibly do. Yes, I closed my eyes as I jumped. Although instinctive, closing one's eyes is not a good idea when jumping from one building to the next. I can't even imagine how ridiculous I must have looked. It's probable that neither Jack nor David saw me do it, but I like to imagine the horrified expressions on their faces as I careened toward brick and cement.

My eyes were still closed when my hands gripped metal and I winced. I had forgotten about my elbow – but I could worry about that later. Was the distance less than I had thought? Theoretically, it must have been a short jump, but my flight through the air felt as long as the unfortunate dinner party my aunt had prepared one Thursday back in Cuba.

I stood gazing at the metal grating below me. I heard one pair of feet jump beside me, and then another. I looked up and David was nearly skipping down the stairs, jangling the entire contraption. Jack pushed me and I followed David down the fire escape: two wobbling stories. I ran into David as I came to a halt and pushed him right into the window he was trying to open.

He glared at me for a second and then opened the window entirely. He jumped in, holding out his hand to help me. Jack leaped through behind.

"What is going on?" I heard a woman say, or rather shriek. "David!"

David closed the window tightly and turned.

"Ma, it's all right. We're just playing a game with a couple other newsies and had to hide."

I choked on my guffaw. Jack glared at me.

"We don't mean to cause any problems, Mrs. Jacobs," Jack said, looking uncharacteristically meek.

Her eyes softened and I was surprised. She didn't see right through this?

"It's quite all right, Jack dear," she said, folding her hands. Then she looked at me, clearly confused. "And what is your name, dear?"

A whistle cut off my answer and I nearly fainted. I could feel my eyes rambling around the room, looking for a makeshift escape from an even more uncomfortable situation.

Mrs. Jacobs (how nice she seemed, and how horrible I felt!) narrowed her eyes and looked out the window, then turning her gaze to us three. I heard David shift on his feet, but Jack remained silent. Could she see the panic in my face? It was likely.

No one spoke as the whistles came nearer. Had the officers on the ground somehow flown up to the rooftops? I waited with bated breath for the sound of boots on the fire escape, but it never came. The whistles went on unceasingly. If they thought they would drive us mad enough with the noise to show ourselves, they might have been right, had it not been for the woman glaring in front of me.

Finally, the noises died away. I tried to sneak a glance at David, but he was still looking at the floor. I felt my heart lurch for him.

I looked at his mother. She was staring at him, hard too, and her arms were crossed. Was it worse to be in prison, or to get your friend in trouble with his mother? It was not clear to me then, and it remains unclear now.

After a painful moment of utter silence, she cleared her throat.

"You two must be starving," she said, and I saw her look at Jack and me. "Let me see if I have anything here for you." Had she really not mentioned David? The guilt was really setting in.

So Jack and I sat at the table with a contrite David, who was determined not to meet our glances. Mrs. Jacobs didn't ask any questions, but I don't think she needed to. Our faces were proof enough. Even Jack, who I had thought was used to such situations, had a guilty wrinkle in the corner of his mouth.

Mrs. Jacobs gave me a towel to wipe the blood of my elbow and a cup of tea. It would have been a pleasant evening, under different circumstances. When it was finally dark, we thanked Mrs. Jacobs and nodded goodbye to David, who closed the door after us a bit too slowly. Jack walked me home.

"I take it Pulitzer didn't like what ya had to say."

I kicked a stone that was lying in a crack in the street. "I guess not."

He was quiet then, for a while. I certainly didn't feel like talking. I had to plan how I was going to get to work every day without the police on my tail.

"Doesn't matter," I heard him say.

"What?" I stopped and turned to him.

He looked at me straight on. "Doesn't matter. He had the chance to get out clean. If he won't listen, we'll make him listen."

I clicked my tongue against my teeth. "Yeah? And how do you plan to do that?" It came out snottier than I had anticipated.

Jack didn't notice and continued walking. "We'll have a rally. Get all the newsies in New York to come." He turned and looked at me. "And you'll bring all the Cubans."

I cleared my throat and widened my eyes. "All the Cubans? To the rally?"

"Yeah. Start lookin' for people tomorrow and come to the lodging house."

I looked at the street, barely making out my feet in the darkness. "I guess I'll see what I can do."


	9. Chapter 9

A great big thanks to Austra and Paisley - you make posting this story worthwhile!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>An entire brigade of angry police officers, at the kindly behest of Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, had just chased me over the low Manhattan rooftops. Sleep wasn't an option.<p>

Out of habit, I crawled into bed, listening for my father's overly concerned scolding for the late hour. None. I was free to stare at the ceiling amidst my nest of crumpled sheets.

I wonder: do you know what it feels like to be completely eluded by sleep? If not, allow me, please, to elucidate. The day's worries, so optimistically thought to be forgotten, double and triple and quadruple until there is no room left in your puckered brain for anything else. The slippery troubles slide around cozily; they're snakes slithering through your ears, past your eardrum, into the deep burrows of your brain, resting their uneasiness right where you hoped they wouldn't go.

Sound unpleasant? It is, and if you've experienced the same, I'm sure you'd agree. I can't stand it. After a few hours, give or take a minute or two, you think you've managed to relegate those thoughts into the back of your mind. You console yourself that they're tucked away safely, that the night is full of dreams and that you are ready and willing to escape.

You'd be mistaken.

Just as you are drifting off to sleep, your nerves poppoppop and recall you back, reminding you that your troubles wait to be resolved and presenting the generous opportunity to think about them even more. The most peaceful person in the world is condemned to a night of chicken-pox-popping sleeplessness.

That night, I rustled up my sheets, picked at my nails, and hummed invented songs until I just couldn't take it anymore. I got up, tripping over the entangled sheets, made a cup of coffee – the dark kind, of course – and sat by the window, staring out at the definite black air pocked with the occasional streetlight. The usual nighttime noises made their appearance: barking dogs, crying babies and banging pots of nighttime cleanings. In other words: the familiarly oppressive sounds of the poor trying to get by.

I had managed to go over the entire fiasco in my head three times over by the time I heard my father's door open. Too absorbed in myself, I held my cup tightly and tried to see his reflection in the dark glass of the window. His eyes looked half closed from what I could see – I hoped he was merely sleep walking again, taking a lovely night stroll through the kitchen unawares.

"Isabel, are you all right? What are you doing awake so late?"

Just my luck, no stroll. I turned around, gripping my cup tighter. "Oh, it's nothing, papá. I just couldn't sleep."

His moustache made a sweeping motion across his face. It was odd, and oddly comforting.

"What's wrong, cariño? Are you cold? I have a blanket in –"

"I'm fine, papá, I promise. Please, go back to sleep."

He stood about five feet away from me, looking at me with red-veined eyes that resembled poorly organized ruby thread. His pause told me he suspected something. Not that I was surprised – my acting skills were limited to avoiding any and all conversation about Caroline Woods. I hadn't yet had time to practice on the subject of the newsies.

He finally nodded, turning slowly around to go back into his room. The door latch sounded, and the cup nearly dropped from my hands.

Phew. The last thing I needed was for my father to get involved in this mess.

I woke up the next morning with a bitter red indent in my forehead, thanks very much to my friend the windowpane, against whom I had apparently fallen asleep. Sitting up, I moved my arm too quickly and knocked the coffee cup onto the floor, spilling the last few drops of liquid onto the dry wood panels. I watched, hypnotized, as the aging timber darkened before I pulled myself together.

Remembering what Jack had asked of me the night before, I got ready as fast as I could and ran to Lola's apartment before work. The rally Cubans had to come from somewhere, and my best friend was as good a place to start recruiting as any.

Lola's mother answered the door, her laundry basket all but falling out of her stalwart arms. Every time I saw those arms, I always felt the oppressive hug that went along with them.

"Buenos días, Isabel, how have you been?" She shifted the basket on her hip. "Lola says she hasn't seen you lately."

I gulped and heard it reverberate in my head. "Oh, I've been working a lot… You know, Caroline Woods is very demanding and I…" What was the point in finishing? "How have you been Mrs. Martínez?"

"Oh, just fine querida," she said, shifting the basket from one hip to the other. She made a sweeping gesture with her free hand. "Come inside, Dolores and Carlos are just finishing breakfast."

Ever since I met Lola in New York those many years ago, I had always loved her house, in an envious, seething kind of way. It wasn't half as clean as our apartment, but it had the feeling of _life_ that I loved. You could tell that there was a time, not too long ago, when there had been loads of screaming kids running around the place, fighting and silently loving each other.

I walked into the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Martínez, and saw Carlos standing by the main table. "Izzie!" he said with his typical hey-you smile. "How's it going?"

Lola, sitting at the table, simply raised her eyebrows. "What are you doing here? Don't you have to be at the millinery?"

"Dolores!" Mrs. Martinez chided. "Where on earth are your manners?"

Lola leaned back farther in her chair. "Sorry, mama. I must have canned them up at work."

Her mother clicked her tongue. "Always with the sarcasm, Dolores. It's unattractive, you know."

"I'm not particularly worried about that around Izzie, mamá, but thanks."

Mrs. Martinez left the three of us in the kitchen, shaking her head as she left.

The remaining silence made me squirm, so I broke it. "I have to be at the millinery soon. I just stopped by because I have a favor to ask you both."

Carlos leaned forward on the table and Lola leaned back in her chair. Jack really had no idea how difficult what he had asked me to do would be.

'All right," I said, shoving my hands into my dress pockets, "you two remember on Saturday when we went to that theatre to drop off a hat?"

Carlos nodded and Lola stared.

"Well, while I was inside I met these two boys, remember?" (True to his style, Carlos cooed.) "Shut up, Carlos, not like that." Lola raised her eyebrow up as far as it would go, a real-life piece of artwork. I knew she would remember seeing David, at the very least. "I swear, it's not like that! Anyway, they're newsies, they're on strike and they're planning a rally."

Neither moved. "What's the point, Izzie?" Lola asked, folding her arms.

I took a deep breath. "Well, they need our help."

Carlos cocked his head, grinning suspiciously. I didn't bother to look at Lola.

"Who is 'us' exactly, Izzie?" Lola asked.

"Well, you, me and Carlos, I guess. And any other Cubans we can find."

"You guess? What do they want 'us' for, anyway?"

I explained the same old story to them: Pulitzer, Cuba, tyranny, newspapers, etc., etc., etc.

"So they were thinking if we could gather some Cubans we could make a public go of supporting the strike. People would see that Pulitzer is a liar and they'd have a better chance of winning the strike. Because of the hypocrisy, see?"

Carlos was holding his chin with two fingers, his thinkingaboutthis face. I turned to Lola, and barely resisted the urge to cover my eyes.

"Let me see if I understand this," she said, her voice low, a sign of trouble. "You want to help a bunch of street rats so they _maybe_, _possibly_, might win this strike of theirs? Is that what you're telling me?"

I thought carefully before I spoke, knowing that at any moment all support would be lost. As if it hadn't been already. "I suppose…"

Boom, crack, smash. It all went up in smoke. Lola's fists clenched and she screeched. "¡Por Dios, Izzie, you don't know anything about them! For all you know they could be confidence men looking for a scapegoat for their heinous crimes."

"I'm pretty sure they're not."

"Oh yeah? And how do you know?"

"Please, Lola, not everyone is a criminal."

"_They_ probably are."

"You don't even know them!"

"You don't either!"

I couldn't take it anymore. The low murmurings, the bad attitude, the snarky remarks. "Lola, what is your problem with them anyway?"

For a moment, she looked like she was going to respond. I waited, sincerely wondering why she was so violently opposed to a bunch of kids who, in reality, were not that different from us.

Just as she was about to open her mouth, she closed it. "It doesn't matter, Izzie," she said, folding her hands on the table. "Go ahead and join them if that's what you want."

I'm not sure if I'm glad that Carlos saved me from screaming at her. "Just calm down, you two. Think about it, Lola," he said, turning to her. "They've got a pretty good idea. If this Pulitzer really did criticize the all the things that happened back home, it would be wrong for him to do it to the very kids that work for him. They were right to have asked Izzie."

Lola's glare was focused on Carlos now. "So you're siding with Izzie now? Tell me, hermano mío, what would you get out of this scam?"

"Come on, Lola, isn't it obvious? We'd be at the front of the newsies strike, standing up for poor kids everywhere!" He was getting more enthusiastic by the minute, and his hands began to shake as he threw them up in the air. "We'd be in the papers, we'd be famous!" (Leave it to Carlos to think of world fame during breakfast).

Lola laughed, but not in her usual way. "Famous? You're forgetting these are newsies, Carlos, not Theodore Roosevelt."

He ignored her. "I saw an article the other day about the newsies and their strike; people are really starting to pay attention to them. It was in _The__ Sun_, I think, and there was a big picture with a bunch of them all lined up. Imagine, Lola, your face on the front page! And nobody would look at us like poor immigrants again…" His hands had stopped shaking, and he had put them on the table again. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm in."

I tried to smile at Carlos behind my face of disappointment. At least I had someone to bring to Jack – a good start, but somehow it wasn't enough. I had to convince Lola. I looked at her and hoped my eyes were watering in that pathetic way they sometimes did.

"Come on, Lola, it's not just to help the newsies. If we stand up for this - "

She shook her head and grinned, a creepy facial paradox. "You think this is actually going to make a difference?" She looked at Carlos. "You think you're actually going to be famous because of this?" Now between both of us. "I'll tell you what's going to happen. You'll get snatched up by the police. All of you are going to be scorned for the rest of your lives, and you don't even care."

Carlos shrugged, but I stepped forward.

"But Lola," I said, "think about it. I mean, if it works, if these kids can get their rights, maybe what happened to Marisol –"

The air between us died. It was the end. Lola ground her teeth and stared at the table. "I'm not doing it, Izzie, so just drop it."

Carlos sighed, which made her ever angrier.

"Me importa un comino what you think, Carlos. I'm not about to go ruin my reputation to help some newsies win their absurd strike. You're crazy to even think about it."

"But Lola –" I tried to say, futilely.

"No, Izzie, that's it. I'm not doing it, and don't ask me again." She looked at both Carlos and I. "I just hope you've thought about this. If Caroline Woods finds out that you're helping these, these," I almost grinned at her missing word, but checked myself just in time, "these sewer rats, you won't be able to show your face in this city again. She'll make sure of that."

And with that, she stood up and walked out. I was stunned – I had never in my life heard Lola so toxically angry before. I had seen Carlos ask her to do things, sure, and she would always shake her head, count herself out, and then come to me, bitter that she had told them no. Was it wrong for me to assume she'd do the same with the strike?

This time it was clear she wouldn't, and I had doubled her resolve by mentioning Marisol. There was no getting Lola involved in the strike. It simply was not going to happen.

Despite her irrational hatred of the newsies, she had one thing right: Caroline Woods was not going to like my involvement in a public strike. If she caught wind that I was implicated in the upcoming rally, that would be the end of me at her millinery, and any millinery in the city of Manhattan. Forget that she had essentially stolen me from my job at the bakery; she was not a woman to put up with betrayal. And essentially, I was betraying her to cavort with striking newsies. I was a bitter news article away from joblessness.

"Forget her, Izzie. She's had her knickers in a knot all morning." Carlos always knew how to coax a smile out of even the toughest nut. "So what's the plan?"

"Oh," I said, still staring at the door out of which Lola had stormed out. "They said to meet them at their lodging house tonight."

He nodded.

"Are you sure Lola is going to be okay?"

Carlos gave me his dontyouworry smile. "Forget about her, Izzie, she's fine. Moody, as usual. Nothing to worry about."

I sighed. "All right. Come to my house tonight and we'll go. Without Lola."

Carlos nodded and left, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I could hear Mrs. Martinez yelling at Lola from the floor above, something about leaving her dirty clothes around her room. It was as if the conversation in the kitchen had never happened.

Unfortunately, it had.

I stepped out of their house. The streets were busy, as usual, but this time the noise didn't bother me. I stared at the miscellaneous hustleandbustle in front of me.

"Boy, do I hope this isn't a mistake."


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you, thank you, thank you to Austra and LucyConlon for their marvelous reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>My father was looking at me with his iwasntbornyesterday eyes. I had only seen them once before, when I was five and had asked for money to buy (of all things I could have invented) a bobbin for my mother's sewing machine.<p>

Never mind that I never caught on to sewing; I was pretty confident my excuse would work. My father must have known I was planning on buying copious amounts of sugar cubes because he gave me that same look, and said absolutely nothing when I returned home hiding a bag of sweetness under my dress. After eating nearly half the bag, my teeth hurt and I gave the rest to a neighboring horse. I was angry he hadn't said anything.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he started investigating into my now frequent absences, which were more often than not happening at night.

"You'll be back soon?"

"Of course, papá. I have to go to the millinery tomorrow."

"All right. Not too late, agreed?"

I felt bad, but what could I say? Perhaps that Carlos and I were going to run around Manhattan at night, planning an underground strike alongside newsies with obsidian fingers? If he believed me, he wouldn't have let me go, but if he didn't believe me… well, that could end up worse. Mental hospital worse.

Walking at night was becoming a bad habit of mine. Things happened at night that I sure didn't want to know about, and getting an upcloseandpersonal view of such things was not my idea of a good time. I turned the corner to wait for Carlos and laughed at my realization: _I_was now a part of those mysterious nighttime things. Oh, how some dirty boys and a guilty conscience can change you. (But David really wasn't that dirty, was he?)

Despite the lousy directions Jack gave me, Carlos and I managed to get to their lodging house: on-time or not, I didn't really care. We were greeted by the crooked smile of an old man whose wrinkles resembled (a bit too eerily) melting wax on a flesh-colored candle.

He pointed us in the direction of room farther back, and Carlos, true to his style, walked in like an invading army. I stayed behind for a moment, peering up the stairs, around the corners, into dark nooks and wondering if I really should have come at all. After the disaster with my dear friend Mr. Pulitzer, I was looking forward to a menial role in this tragic play of reality. I mean, they didn't need _me_ – I had already shown how useful I was going to be. Carlos was going to be the key, and the thought hit me like calf in a bag.

"Ya goin' in?" the old man asked, his hat tipping nearly off his head. I looked at him and had to turn away – his face looked too much like the candle next to my bed.

"I'm not sure."

David must have seen me mulling around because he came over to me and my waxy friend. "We're glad you came, Izzie."

I nodded, and David squinted at me. Well, more probably my sudden silence.

"Come on, follow me."

I followed him to the indicated room. There was an oblong table, old from years not use, around which the boys sat, now including Carlos. I sat next to Davey and Jack, Carlos on my other side. There were fifteen boys staring at me, and although they did not appear threatening, their very presence unnerved me. So far, dealing with two newsies was manageable. Fifteen was not so much.

My goose bumps were rising when Jack began to speak.

"Alright boys, let's get this meetin' over with. You all know about our friend Izzie here, who paid a kindly visit to our dear Uncle Joe."

I heard low chuckles around the table. I wasn't laughing.

"Since that didn't work, we gotta expand our horizons," (here he gave a comical flourish) "as they say. We need to make this strike bigger – bigger and better than anything New York has ever seen. We've got Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and Harlem on our side, but that ain't enough. We need somethin' that'll really get Pulitzer in his goat. And our pal Izzie is gonna to help us with that." He turned and smiled down at me.

My eyes were watering, my hands shaking as if I held the entire building above me, and my feet were tapping the floor like maniacs. I hadn't expected this.

"Tell 'em, Izzie," Jack unhelpfully ordered.

Carlos clapped me on the back and the inertia caused me to stand up and stumble on the way. I coughed, trying to spit the words out, but the only thing that came out was, "Ah, well, like Jack said… I uh… well we're uh here to help." Brilliant, Izzie, just brilliant.

A tall, gangly boy with ruffled brown hair spoke up from his crossed arms. "Yeah? How are ya goin' to help if ya couldn't get Pulitzer to back down?"

"Oh, well, uh… See Jack told us that Pulitzer –"

"Yeah, we all know about you Cubans and Pulitzer. How're ya gonna do it with only two of ya?"

I'm sure I looked like a right old dope then. I mean, I knew the plan was to recruit more Cubans and get the word out to the general public, but I hadn't thought about _how_ we were going to do it.

I heard someone shift in their chair and wished myself invisible. The room was silent, and would be, I knew, until an answer was given. Like a blessed apparition, I saw Carlos stand up and address the pessimistic nay-sayer.

"We may be only two but there's a lot more of us. They're not here tonight but we're gonna to get 'em. There's Cubans all across this city just waiting to be found."

"That ain't gonna help us unless you find 'em. So, how are ya gonna find 'em?" another chimed in.

"Yeah," everyone around the table countered.

I shot a look at Jack, who was leaning back in his chair, arms too casually crossed and seemingly enjoying the verbal tussle. There would be no help from him (and certainly not from me).

"Look," Carlos said, with more gusto (and a fashionable New York accent) than I had known from him, "we said we're gonna help ya so we're gonna. It doesn't matter how we find 'em, because we will. We're gonna find them, and you're gonna have an army of newsies and Cubans so big it'll stretch all the way across Long Island."

That shut everyone up. I ventured a slight smile and was glad that Carlos's hot air had at long last come to some good use. I looked slyly at Jack and saw him smirk, seemingly appeased by the fight.

"Well boys," Jack said as he stood from his seat. "There's yer answer. Any objections?"

At first nervously, then certainly, heads began shaking everywhere. The sudden and frightful image of Caroline Woods's hat mannequins bouncing as in a macabre dance darted across my mind and I had to shake my head to rid myself of it.

"All right, that's cleared up. Now we gotta plan this rally."

I sank back further in my chair while the room perked up at the idea of a public demonstration. David leaned over to me and said as low as he could, "Relax, they're just testing you."

I felt my cheeks burn ashamedly and cursed that someone had noticed my flub. Since my typical retort was silenced by my fear, my only other response was to cross my arms and pout. "I'm fine." David looked at me curiously, so I repeated myself like a senile parrot. "I'm fine."

Apparently receiving my temperamental message, David smiled. "Good," he said and he leaned back in his chair.

Jack talked and I heard but didn't listen. From what I could deduce after the fact, they had appeared to have already planned the rally, which was to be at Irving Hall (at least I knew how to get there). I caught myself up at the point when Jack touted how everyone would be there, from Queens to Brooklyn to the Bronx. Carlos's tightening fist on the table in front of me made me look at him, and boy had I wished I hadn't.

At the precise moment Jack said the word "Brooklyn," Carlos's eyebrows folded against each other, creating a terrifying maze of furry bitterness. I had never seen a look like that on a face like his and I hoped no one else saw.

"This is gonna be huge. It's gonna be so huge that none of the papes will be able to ignore it."

Raucous cheers reverberated against walls as thin as my father's razor. The neurotic that I am, I stared at the doorway, waiting for the police to break in and take us all away for a good, long time. I was forced to abandon my maniacal paranoia by a hearty pat on the back, courtesy of Carlos. I glared at him, but he only smiled. For a boy who hadn't even known about this rally eight hours ago, Carlos was certainly enthusiastic.

"So," Jack said, facing Carlos. "We're countin' on ya to recruit as many Cubans as ya can get, all right? We gotta make a show of it if it's gonna work."

Carlos nodded seriously, eyes narrowed as if focused on the goal, but his twitching fingers hidden in his lap betrayed his childish enthusiasm for adventure.

And thus the meeting concluded.

I turned to Carlos, determined to weasel his hatred of Brooklyn out of him. "So Carlos," I started, as innocently as I possibly could. "What's this with Brooklyn –"

"So you're from Cuba, huh?" a short, dark haired boy asked, coming out of seemingly nowhere. A half-smoked cigar was hanging languidly from his lips and he stood so casually I would have thought he owned the place.

"Yes," I said slowly, unsure if he was friend or foe.

I had my answer soon enough. The cigar lifted gladly as he gave a crooked smile, holding out his ink-stained hand to shake mine. "The name's Racetrack. So you're really Cuban then? I always wanted to go there – I hear they got the best cigars around."

"Well, there is a reputation…"

"And I hear they got bullfights too."

"Sometimes, I guess."

"You ever been to one?"

"No."

He frowned a bit, clearly displeased with my answer. He turned to Carlos. "You ever been to one?" Racetrack asked.

"Once, when I was a kid."

And he was off.

"The names Racetrack," he repeated unnecessarily, holding out his hand to shake Carlos's. "So tell me about this bloody bullfight. Didya bet on it?"

I stood up, overloaded with boyish enthusiasm, and Racetrack immediately took my seat and pulled it closer to Carlos. _You__'__ll__ wish __you __weren__'__t __that __close __when __he __gets __to __his __favorite __part_, I thought to myself, glad to be away. I can personally verify that when Carlos gets wrapped up in telling a story, his voice can effortlessly climb 10 decibels from the beginning to the end, until he is yelling in your ear and you are dumbfounded to remember at which point he got so loud.

Having been deprived of my seat, I walked around the lodging house, hoping to avoid rousing any suspicion or unwanted visitors. I tried to hide myself in unsuspecting corners, but I forgot I was the only girl in the building and therefore an easy target. The surly boy who had so rudely doubted Carlos earlier came over and stood next to me, leaning against the wall in a way that was much too consciously nonchalant for my liking.

He didn't say anything.

"What?" I said, a bit of my surliness returning.

I was stunned when he merely said, "How'd ya get here?"

I looked around me, wondering if he was playing some kind of joke on the foreign kid. "I walked?"

"No, I mean how'd ya get to New York?"

Ah, so it was curiosity. "Oh… well, I took a boat with my father from Cuba and we took trains to get up here to New York."

"And yer ma?"

I bit my lip and looked down, hoping it was a better answer than saying anything. He didn't press.

"Ya like New York?"

"Sure, it's nice… I guess."

Feeling obligated to reciprocate his unexpected sociality, I asked, "Were you born here?"

"Nope. Born over in Illinois, near Chicago."

I nodded in that stupidly obliging way. I knew the general vicinity of Illinois in the grand scheme of things, but beat me if I knew where Chicago was. I hadn't taken the time yet (in three years!) to properly study American geography.

"What's your name?" I asked, feeling more social.

"Skittery."

"I'm Izzie."

He nodded, a feeble smile curling his lips.

Carlos had managed to slink away from the cigar boy and came over to me and my pink-shirted companion.

"Hey Izzie, ready to go?"

"Yeah. It was nice meeting you, Skittery. I guess we'll see you at the rally."

Skittery nodded to me, Carlos nodded to him, and I nodded at no one in particular. We went to leave, but Jack ambled over and stopped us.

"Hey," he said, glancing at me then focusing on Carlos. "Make sure you get as many as ya can, alright? We want this to work."

"Don't worry, we'll get them." There was a glint in Carlos's eye as he spoke, and I knew he was feeling like the belle of the ball.

Jack smiled, spit in his hand and offered it to Carlos. I nearly choked, but Carlos clearly knew what he was doing because he spit in his own and returned the gesture. Jack and David nodded us a goodbye as we left the Lodging House.

Carlos and I didn't talk until we nearly reached my apartment – he was the type of person who didn't talk when there was nothing to say and I was the type of person who didn't talk when she didn't know what to say.

We were a corner away from my house when I finally mustered myself up to ask.

"So, Carlos, what's this about Brooklyn?"

He looked straight ahead and his gait slowed, but only for a moment.

"It's nothing."

"That's a lie."

He turned and where I would have glared, he simply looked curious. "What does it matter?"

"I was just wondering," I said, raising my hands up in meek defense. "Besides, if they're going to be at the rally I think I have a right to know what the inevitable fight will be about."

He scrunched his eyebrows at me. I could tell he was trying to decide if it was worth telling or not, but I knew he'd tell me. I had the secret weapon of being friends with Lola, who couldn't keep a secret from me for all the frilly dresses in the world.

"Really, Izzie, it's nothing," he said, resuming his walk. "Just a little run-in with a Brooklyn newsie."

I scoffed. "You're going to have to explain yourself a bit better than that."

He sighed, his hands melting slowly down into his pockets. "All right, all right, I'll tell you. You've gotten nosier over the years, Izzie, you know that?" I winked and shrugged – he should have known better.

"A while back I decided to try my hand at being a newsie." (Now that was something new to my ears.) "It didn't seem too hard and I figured it would give me some money to bring home at night. Well, the first day I bought my papes and wandered around town trying to sell them. I didn't get too far when I ran into one of my friends. He said he had to go to Brooklyn to get something and asked if I'd go with him. So I went – I had nothing better to do and thought I'd try to sell the rest of the papes while I was at it. One of Spot Conlon's goons caught me at it and roughed me up a little. That's all."

"Spot Conlon?"

Carlos stopped walking, laughed and immediately quit when he saw I was serious. "You don't know Spot Conlon?"

"Not a bit."

He was searching for the lie in my face, but he knew he wouldn't get any. He'd known me long enough to know that lying was not a talent of mine.

"Good." And that was that.

We started walking again, coming up on my building. I thought for a minute and turned to him. "Carlos, is that why Lola hates the newsies? Because one of them beat you up?"

At first he appeared offended – surely he wasn't expecting such a callous response to such a sensitive tale. After a moment he shrugged. "Maybe. Who knows why she does anything. That girl is crazy."

I nodded, but started at an obvious thought. "Wait, but why didn't Jack and the others recognize you tonight? They must have seen you selling around Manhattan."

"Ah, I only sold for a day and gave it up. They'd have no reason to recognize me."

I decided that enough was enough and shut my mouth for the rest of the walk. Carlos had been particularly obliging and I didn't want to wear it out before we even began this striking business.

Carlos didn't speak either (except a quick 'goodnight'), and I couldn't blame him. I would like to think that he was planning his brilliant Cuban-recruiting strategies, but who knows. Maybe he was thinking about all the girls he would attract with his newfound fame. Boys, I tell you – sometimes I think I will never understand them.

All I thought about, as I threw myself face down on my bed and buried a groan in my pillow, was how to get out of this strike unscathed.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks to Austra and her incredibly encouraging reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>"Oh, just be quiet already!"<p>

The birds were back, chatting gaily outside my window. Crawling across the bed, I begrudgingly pulled myself up and slammed the window shut, scaring the meager avian off for a mere 3 seconds.

My father must have heard my somnambulant yelps. "Isabel, what do you want for breakfast?"

"Nothing, papá, I've got to go to work!" I yelled as I grabbed my clothes, which littered the room like massive and aggressive lily pads.

"You have to eat something!"

"I'll be fine, papá, don't worry! See you tonight!"

I didn't wait for his response before I hurriedly shut the door behind me.

Did you think I had already forgotten about the night before?

I wish I had. Sure, on the whole everything went off well at the makeshift meeting. I had minimized my embarrassment and we weren't chased out of the place by an angry mob of newsboys – that was a relief in and of itself.

But there was something lurking of which I desperately pretended I was unaware.

Surprisingly (to myself, at least), it had nothing to do with the newsboys. It had nothing to do with Lola. It had nothing to do with Carlos (although he didn't help things).

It was me. Me and only me. Me, myself and I.

When Jack looked at Carlos and asked _him_ to lead the search for Cubans, what can only be described as a black hole spread throughout my gut. At the time I wasn't entirely sure what it was from, but I had an entire night to think about it.

It was disappointment. More particularly – regret. I had blown the meeting with Pulitzer and Jack had entrusted Carlos with the responsibility of the new mission.

Why would you be angry, you ask, when you were the one who choked, who wanted to give it away? I did, just like I always do. That's why I knew it wasn't Carlos's fault that I was feeling like a child. Jack saw leadership in Carlos and Carlos just did what came naturally to him.

It was my chance and I blew it. And I was now cursing myself for it.

And thus I ran out of the apartment, my poor father likely staring after me in a cloud of confusion.

The neighbor woman was on the stairs again. She had the habit of doing that from time to time, sitting always and precisely on the 14th stair, her expanding thighs resting comfortably against the painfully splintering wood. I don't want to say that she was crazy, but why would you sit on a stair, mumbling particularly obscene things to yourself and the poor neighborly rats, if you weren't?

That morning her red gingham apron was stained with what looked like a bit of tomato.

"Good morning, Mrs. Burns!" I yelled as I ran down the stairs, quick to jump over her sprawling leg, which had grown more expansive since I had last seen her. She grumbled, lifted her arm feebly, and returned to her solitary state.

Since the fateful day I met Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, I always surveyed the streets before I walked down them. I checked for police officers outside the millinery, snooping around for their (innocent) culprit. Thus far, I thankfully hadn't run across any authority in passing or near the millinery, but I took each and every precaution nevertheless. It was a dangerous world out there, and to be on the bad side of the law was even worse.

I arrived that day at the millinery with Lola on my mind. It was obvious from her reaction yesterday that the mere mention of the strike had obviously upset her, so I didn't even want to think about what she would do when she found out I went to their Lodging House with Carlos (and she _would_ find out – that much I knew).

I still didn't understand why she would get so agitated over something so insignificant (after all, I was the one in real danger), but I shook my head and resolved to forget about her for as long as possible. I had known Lola for three years – it was her way to get upset over something for a minute and then blow friendly kisses the next.

The day passed by slowly (as it always does on Wednesdays), and I thanked the moment it rang 5 o'clock in that museum of feathers and beads. Haphazardly stuffing all my belongings into my bag, I bolted out the door, thankful for the afternoon freedom.

For the first time in days, I had a free moment. No newsies, no meetings, no covert plans. I looked around me (checking first, of course, for hidden coppers), finally deciding to see if I could find Lola. She wouldn't be happy to see me, that I knew, but if I could simply get a word in edgewise maybe she would see the point of it all.

I came to her apartment and knocked. No answer – odd, considering Lola was always home at such an hour. I squinted as I tried to peer through the crack in the door jamb. As to be expected, I saw nothing, but I heard a rustle and knocked again. Still no answer.

I could have stomped from indignation. I was no fool – she was waiting for me to go away and leave her in peace. Well, Lola, mi amiga, it wasn't going to happen today. Not after everything I'd been through the past few days. So I sat, my back against the moldy wall, legs drawn up to my chest, arms around my knees.

I was going to wait.

Well, there I sat and IwaitedandIwaitedandIwaited. I waited for two hours (I know, who does that?) when I went up to knock again. I promised myself that if she was going to be so stubborn I'd leave her in her misery, free to wallow in her invented hatred of simple newsboys.

Just as my knuckles were about to rap on the door, it opened and she walked out. She passed me without a word, walking down the stairs as if she hadn't seen me. I jogged up to her and followed her down the stairs.

"What was _that_, Lola? I've been waiting here for hours." She had gotten off too easy too many times before – it was payback time.

She must have sensed my fury, because she didn't respond.

"Lola, what is wrong with you?"

She whirled around, fists clenched at her sides, eyebrows arching so high they looked as if they had been painted on her teak skin.

"No, Izzie. The question is: what is wrong with you?"

Her question, by all means, shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. I threw my hands up in exasperation, trying to ward off the demons in her glare. "What are you talking about? Nothing's wrong with me!"

She looked at me hard, an indignant fire raging behind familiar brown eyes.

"One of those boys must have really charmed you."

There it was. What I subconsciously knew she would say, but desperately hoped she wouldn't. The cards were all on the table, and Lola was calling my bluff. "_What_? Them c_harm_ me? You don't know what you're talking about, Lola."

She left her gaze on me for a moment more, waiting, waiting for me to let up like I had done so many times before. Her eyes had that familiar golden, triumphant look that before I hadn't noticed but now ripped disgust out of my stomach. Just before the urge to punch her in the face set in, she looked away and continued her obstinate march down the stairs.

"Why are you so upset?" I called after her, the disgust settling back in its hole and my weakness rising up once again. "Because I'm helping some newsies with their strike?"

She stopped mid-step, her hand gripping the iron rail beside her with a force I'd never imagined she had. She turned her head so that I could only see the left side of her face. "I'm upset because you're lowering yourself to help a bunch of dirty kids that would turn on you in a second."

"Oh yeah, and how do you know that?" I saw her take an angry breath before she snapped around to face me.

"Oh, Izzie." (Condescending much?) "Haven't you seen them? They'll just steal your money and leave you to rot. They're not decent."

Now, Lola could be a real prat sometimes, but I'd never heard such poisonous words come out of her mouth. "Not decent? Jeez, Lola, where is this attitude coming from?"

She smiled, but I knew it wasn't the one I wanted. "You know what, Izzie, just go off with your new friends, all right? See if I care."

And she left. She left me standing there like an idiot. And like an idiot, I didn't go after her, but instead stood dumbfounded, jaw dropped, arms hanging, staring after her like she would realize her error and come crawling back.

I may have been naïve, but I was no fool – she would never come back.

I saw on a stair and recovered myself. If Lola didn't want to help, let alone see me, fine. She was her own person and I was mine. Sure we had been best friends for years, sure there was no one else I was closer to, sure I had wanted to be her friend forever. But if she wasn't going to have it, neither was I.

I went to find the only people who were on my side, who were _not_ pouty little girls, who were looking forward to seeing me (I hoped) – the newsies.

The afternoon light was threatening to turn in for the night, but I nevertheless began my trek to their Lodging House. Shadows swam furtively in and out of streets as I walked, my fingers kneading bits of lint in my dress pockets. I never liked shadows – they were too fast and too invincible for my sensitive taste, and I always got the feeling they weren't just shadows that were following me. I tried to escape my own shadow by weaving in and out of alleys, hiding behind spare trees, becoming a shadow myself behind an unsuspecting businessman.

So I walked in the direction of the lodging house, hoping and praying I would happen upon a familiar face. I stopped at a corner, looking around like a drugged animal and trying to remember the way to the place when I heard a voice call behind me.

"Hey, you!"

I turned around slowly – the first image that entered my mind was that of a pressed blue suit and impeccably polished badge. To my surprise, a boy with an eye patch and a vaguely familiar smile was running up to me. My shoulders immediately relaxed a bit.

"I remember you," he said, finishing his jog up to me. "You're that girl from Cuba, right?"

His white-as-lightning smile and curious eye patch weren't enough to jog my memory. He must have noticed, because he continued. "I was there that night at the Lodging House. I'm Blink," he said, holding out his hand.

Still in a daze, I held out my hand. "I'm Izzie."

"I know," he said, winking his visible eye. "So, Izzie," he took his cap off his head and shook his head of dusty blonde hair, "what are ya doin' 'round these parts? Ya don't live 'round here, do ya?"

"Oh," I said, shifting on the balls of my feet. "No, I live over by Battery Park. I was just taking a stroll. It's a nice afternoon, you know." Uncomfortable, I left my eyes wander over his head, casually considering the setting sun.

"Ya live over by Battery Park and yer takin' a stroll by our Lodging House?" he asked. "Ain't that a long way to walk?"

I coughed, and scratched a non-existent itch on my nose. "It's not so bad."

He was considering _me_ now, with his head cocked and cap back on. I was worried he was going to call my bluff, but his confusion quickly turned into a grin. "Well since yer here, why don't ya come help us make signs for the strike? We've got a bunch done, but we need a few more."

The thought of spending an entire evening with a house full of boys gave me the jitters, but what choice did I have? I _had_ been looking for them, after all, and I'd only be sitting around by myself if I went home.

"Sure."

The white-as-bliss grin appeared again. "Great," he said, extending a generous hand for what I assumed was my bag. "Come wit me."

He led me to the lodging house (which, incidentally, had been a short ways in the opposite direction I had been going) where dozens of lounging boys mulled about – cards flying, shoelaces (what was left of them) tripping, hands slapping. I felt as if I'd jumped right into a poorman's saloon.

"Hey, Race!" my one-eyed companion called to the familiar Italian boy leaning against a wall. "Look who I found!"

Racetrack the bullfight enthusiast looked at me for a minute before recognition spread across his face with a curious smile.

"Good to see ya again, Cuba," he said, having walked over to us. "Say, I don't suppose ya'd have a minute to tell me more about those bull fights, eh? You and yer friend Carlos left right at the good part of the story."

I was about to mumble a reminder that I had not ever been to a fight when Blink interrupted. "Aw, come on, Race, give 'er some space."

With a wave of his hand, Race brushed off his friend, turned and looked at me expectantly. When I said nothing he shrugged and put his ink-stained hands in his pockets. "So what're ya here for?" he asked.

"Well –"

"She's gonna help us wit the signs," Blink said.

Race looked impressed. "Yeah? Well come on, then, they're all inside."

I had all but forgotten the small space of the lodging house from the night before. Somehow, it seemed even smaller since then, with boys running around, placards of wood strewn hastily about the floor, and paintbrushes staining everywhere they landed. Not only the sights, but there were so many smells I had never noticed before – boy sweat (much different from man sweat and girl sweat, let me tell you), cigarette smoke, ink, and many more I would be hard-pressed to name.

I let my eyes wander around the space as I was pushed around the room. I didn't see Jack or David, but a face here and there seemed familiar.

"Hey, Cuba," gangly boy with scraggly hair, officially known as Skittery said, waving a short, but pleasant, hello.

My "hey," fell on deaf ears as I was ushered towards a corner.

"Come on, Izzie," Blink said, taking me by the elbow and leading me to a group of intently painting boys. "We've got some signs over here; we just gotta paint 'em."

I watched as their shaky hands painted bold words with intense care. Funny – they were newsies and by trade were required to read, but I had never once imagined them writing. By the looks of their wobbly letters, neither had they.

They were simple signs with a direct, but surprisingly powerful message: "Strike," "Rally Against Pulitzer," "No World," were some of the most common. The slogans were written on anything and everything the newsies could find: paper, sheets, wood. It was all thrown together but oh, so endearing.

I sat down next to Blink, who had gathered up his materials and was observing the plaque of wood in front of him.

"So whaddya gonna do wit that one?" a boy next to him asked.

Blink narrowed his one good eye. "It's gotta be somethin' new, somethin' powerful. We can't have 'em all say the same thing." He folded his hands seriously in front of him.

The group sat in active silence – a few were biting their lips, a couple were picking at their grimy nails, one across from me shifting in his troublesome pants. Their creativity in inventing headlines (I used to buy papers from them, remember?) was failing them.

"What about," I said in a low voice, my hands planted firmly under my behind, "Newsies Against _The__ World?__"_

Their silence hit me like four by four to the face. I slid my hands out from below me and put them in my lap, my face down. Blink clapped me on the back.

"That's great, Izzie! Put that down, Snipe, that's a good one."

The boys painted furiously on their materials, nodding their heads and mumbling compliments all the while. We all spent a good hour or two inventing new slogans and making up signs, each one better than the last.

Remembering what Jack had said about making the Cuban presence known, I started painting a few of my own signs to give to Carlos and his friends.

"Cuba Against _The__ World_"

"Cubans Against Pulitzer"

"Are Newsies the New Cubans?"

I was so wrapped up in my signs that I didn't notice when Jack stepped into the lodging house.

"Those ain't half bad," he said, looking over my shoulder with impressively serious face.

Not seeing, hearing or expecting him to come over, I started, turning the "E" I was painting turned into an indecipherable symbol of swirls and squiggles.

"Oh," I said, looking furiously at my mistake. "Thanks."

"This is gonna be big," he said to no one in particular as he looked around at the group of makeshift artists.

"It sure is, Jack!" Blink said enthusiastically, tossing his sign in a pile next to him.

Jack smirked, took one last look at the beautiful chaos around him, and walked upstairs.

Awake at midnight, I realized a few things:

A group of destitute kids were fighting with all they had to get back at the most powerful man in the world.

Lola (close to destitute herself) was forging a hatred of them for no apparent reason.

Carlos was scheming to create a popular empire he hoped to stand on for the rest of his life.

And me? Well, I was sitting by that window again, staring into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

Firstly – thank you to everyone who is reading this story! I'm grateful for your readership.

Secondly – a special thank you to Austra and Paisley for so kindly giving me their thoughts. They really make writing this story that much more worthwhile!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>Don't get me wrong – I like Carlos. I mean, when he's in a good mood (which is, luckily, most of the time) he's pretty nice, albeit a bit arrogant. I've never had a real reason <em>not<em> to like him. But when he asked me to help enlist a few of our compatriots for the rally, I could have strangled him for his ignorance.

Naturally, (as in, against all reason), I said yes. Of course I didn't want to be reminded of my epic failure and Carlos's subsequent rise to newsie power, but my desperate need for companionship won me out in the end. I had no one else to be my friend, and I figured Carlos would be a suitable temporary replacement for his moody sister.

But that doesn't mean I didn't put up a fight.

"Carlos, they asked _you_ to do it."

"So? Doesn't mean you can't help."

"Sure it does."

"Jeez, Izzie, maybe this bad attitude is why Lola is avoiding you."

The sharpest jab in the most sensitive place. His reasoning was entirely faulty, but it didn't matter. He knew he had me right where he wanted me. I took a deep breath of resignation.

"But why, Carlos? You know where all those kids live; I don't have a clue. If anything I'll just get in the way."

"Nah – it'll be fine. All you have to do is follow me and I'll do the rest."

I began to see yet more clearly his resemblance to his sister.

"If I'm not going to do anything, why do I have to go?"

"Just because, Izzie. I'll pick you up around eight."

As the "chosen one," he sure was needy. Despite his casual tone and flick of his well-groomed hair, it was all becoming quite suspicious.

Despite my initial disappointment at being virtually cast aside from any responsibility for the rally, I had successfully (that's what I told myself) convinced myself that it was the perfect opportunity to wash my hands of the whole thing. I'd stay out of the spotlight and simply do my best to avoid any and all police officers, at least as long as I needed to until they would forget my humdrum face. I comforted myself with the thought that it wouldn't be long.

Besides, if I slowly eked myself out of the strike, I could be friends with Lola again. And that was what was really on my mind.

Carlos's plan really put a wrench in things.

He came and picked me up from the millinery that afternoon. We walked through the familiar afternoon glow towards the _barrios_ where he knew a couple of his friends lived.

"How do you know there will be others here?" I said, my hands planted firmly in my dress pockets, eyes obstinately counting each step.

"Where there's one, there's usually more."

"Not necessarily – look at me. No other Cubans live around me."

"That's because you're _you_, Izzie."

I tore my eyes from the ground and planted my glare right on the side of Carlos's face. I was annoyed to see a knowing smirk.

A little schoolgirl passed us by, carrying an armful of anonymous books in her arms, tripping over her shoes as she went. I wondered if that's what I looked like when I was on my hat deliveries… and decided in the positive.

"How is Lola?" I asked, never taking my eyes off the schoolgirl spectacle.

He didn't say anything for a moment, so I turned and saw him bite his lip. "Oh, she's fine. Pretty busy, you know how Lola is."

He had some nerve to be blatantly lying to me, knowing I knew his sister better than anyone, but I was feeling apathetic that afternoon and let it slide. Besides, our mission would only be that much more miserable if I got on Carlos's bad side. He was a lot like Lola in that way.

"Do you think they'll help us?" I asked Carlos, who was looking up and down streets with narrowed eyes.

He didn't hear me.

"Carlos."

"Huh?" he said, still peering around the streets and not bothering to look at me. "Oh, yeah I'm sure they will. Why wouldn't they?"

There are a million reasons why they wouldn't, obtaining a police record being one of them, I thought, but didn't say anything.

We arrived. The houses stood in a semi-circle around us, the only way out of the place turning around and heading back from where we came. Children waddled around either playing invisible games with each other or nodding off to sleep against brick walls.

It was a place I had never been before, and the quaintness of it (compared with my typical Manhattan hideouts) struck me to the core. These people had come from the same place I had, likely from the same conditions, to the same city. Besides Lola and her family, I hadn't met any other Cubans in New York since I had arrived. Having so many of my countrymen and women around me seemed like an all too real coincidence.

Carlos walked up to a rough looking kid who was leaning a bit too casually against a nearby wall, his arms crossed indignantly and his eyes narrowed at the ruckus around him.

"Hey," Carlos said, seemingly forgetting I was following behind him.

"Hey," said the kid, still facing ahead.

"You know where Pancho lives?"

The kid lifted a cigarette that had been hidden beneath his crossed arms to his lips and puffed. The end of the cigarette burned a threatening yet comforting orange.

"Third house on the left."

Carlos nodded and walked towards the indicated house. I had to run to catch up with him.

"You don't even know where your friend _lives_ around here?"

He didn't respond, so I kept quit and avoided pushing my luck.

Here's what I learned about Carlos that night: he couldn't persuade a fish to live in water. I went into the plan of attack thinking Carlos would magically convince everyone that had ever left Cuba for New York to join in the fight and we would be an army of thousands. Never mind that thousands of Cubans didn't live in Manhattan, he would some how find a way to get all the Cubans from the country together for a noble cause.

That wasn't the case. I learned that for as charming as Carlos was, he was severely lacking in the art of persuasion outside the romantic sphere.

The boy, previously mentioned as Pancho, opened the door after Carlos's firm knock.

"Hey, Carlos," he said, eyeing me suspiciously from behind Carlos's shoulder. "What's going on?"

"Listen, Pancho, I have a proposition for you."

The all too familiar words rung once again in my ears, while I pulled nervously on the skin between my fingers. It was happening once again, and it was strange to be on the outside looking in. From both vantage points, it was nerve-wracking.

From the first word of Carlos's speech to the very last, Pancho looked doubtful, and I could hardly blame him. Carlos's mouth took off running, leaving Pancho (and me) in the dust behind him. He started with an all too cursory explanation of the newsies, nearly left out the entire point of the strike, and emphasized too much the glory (and dangers) that awaited anyone who joined him. More than once I caught an "is he serious?" glance from Pancho and expected Carlos to slow himself down, all to no avail.

By the end of Carlos's long-winded, yet entirely uninformative speech, I felt sorry for Pancho, who appeared to be on the brink of calling his mother to help him get away from such a verbal train wreck.

"I'll have to think about it, Carlos," Pancho said, his feminine fingers tapping nervously on the door he was still holding, "I've got a lot going on right now, you know…"

Appearing not to see a glimmer of the nerves his friend was exhibiting, Carlos said, "All right, Pancho, we're counting on you. And don't forget, tell everyone you know about this – we're going to take the big man down."

Pancho half-closed the door as Carlos was talking, nodding his head and smiling uncomfortably from behind.

"All right, Izzie, that's one with us. Let's get on to the next one."

Carlos walked off, but I stayed behind, rooted to the spot where the travesty had just occurred. Had he turned around, he would have seen bewilderment frozen across my face. He didn't turnaround, however, so I followed him to the next house, keeping my thoughts to myself. After all, maybe I misread Pancho's meaning – maybe Carlos wasn't such a bad persuader after all.

The rally would be the only proof of my suspicions.

Door after door, Carlos repeated his aggressive message, effectively shutting down each and every unwilling recipient. He would urge full participation, full donation, full contribution, and the poor person standing in the door got that look of terror on their face – you know, the one where they will do anything _not_ to get involved? That one.

Overall, most of Carlos's friends were kind and didn't outright reject his proposition, but it was plain to me that the invitation was only tentatively accepted. Even if they did show up at the rally, they were no way near as dedicated as Carlos, which wouldn't have been a problem in my mind, really, except that I knew when push came to shove and the police showed their gruesome faces, they would run to the hills faster than a white-tailed deer in pursuit.

I held my tongue during our long, demeaning tread back home. Carlos had that familiar lilt in his walk that he would get when he would charm the pretty girls in the neighborhood, and I knew he was pretty pleased with his work. I simply didn't have the heart to take that away from him, as disastrous as it would it end.

Carlos dropped me off at my apartment and went home. I saw a light underneath the door as I came to the top of the stairs and I knew my father was home and waiting for me. The hinges creaked like an old man's bones as I opened the door, hoping he was fast asleep on the sofa.

After such a luckless night, I shouldn't have expected any reprieve: not only was he not asleep on the couch, but he was sitting at the kitchen table, looking straight at me with critical eyes as I creeped through the doorway.

"Oh," I said, stopping myself mid-walk. "Buenas noches, papá. I didn't think you'd be awake." My veil of innocence was wearing transparently thin.

"Where were you, Isabel?" His eyes were angry, but his voice simply firm. I didn't know what exactly I saw in his face, but at least it wasn't barefaced rage.

"Oh, just out with Carlos," I said, resuming my walk once again and laying all my possessions on the kitchen table and gesturing towards my room. "Well, I'm quite tired so –"

He ignored me. "Carlos? What about Dolores?"

Ouch. A painful reminder.

"Ah, well, she had some things… to do for work for tomorrow?" It was upsetting to admit that I was becoming a worse liar the more I practiced.

The creases between my father's angry eyes tightened at my lie and I bit my lip. "Anyway, she was busy. So I'm going to go to bed –"

"You've been running off a lot lately, Isabel. Tell me what's going on."

Moment of truth: should I, or shouldn't I? Would it be a relief, or make my life that much harder?

Disgusted with myself, I faked a smile, walked over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Papá, I promise, nothing is going on. I'm just making some new friends is all."

The angry creases didn't let up until he spent nearly five minutes staring at my face. I had convinced myself I would be sent away to a jail across the country where the inmates ate their toenails and little girls were locked up with murderers, but when I saw those wrinkles relax, I knew I was home free.

"All right, if that's all then I guess there's nothing to say. I'm glad you're making new friends, Isabel. Sometimes I worry about you."

"About me?"

"Por supuesto. It's good to have other friends, you know. I'd begun to think that you and Lola were having troubles. I wouldn't want you to be alone," he said, standing up from his chair, looking down at me.

I had to fake another smile, this one much harder than the last. "Sure. Well, I'm off to bed. Good night, papá."

I kissed him on the cheek and felt the bristles of his moustache scrape against my two-faced mug before he went into his bedroom.

That was a close one.

The next evening Carlos and I went to Tibby's to discuss our success (ha!) with the newsies. Once again, all eyes turned to face us as we opened the building door. This time, I tried to blend in behind Carlos as we went to sit next to Jack at his top-dog table, accompanied by his most trusted advisors (David being the most trusted, of course.) The rest of the motley crew leaned all around to get a good hear.

"So what happened?" he asked after we had slid in next to him.

I tried to keep my face as placid as possible, and snuck a look at Carlos. He had that ridiculous smirk on his face, the same one he always had every time he proved (or thought he did) he was right to Lola. She _hated_ that smirk. _I_ hated that smirk.

"I think you're gonna be really happy with the turnout," Carlos said, leaning back into the booth, arms crossed in satisfaction. "There's a whole neighborhood ready and waiting to join us."

I coughed up the water I was drinking, spraying David across from me. I wiped my mouth, hoping no one had seen. Luckily, most ignored the spasm, but David looked at me curiously, offering a napkin. I gave him an "I'm fine" quick smile and wiped my face.

"Good," Jack said. "We're gonna need 'em. This rally's gotta be the best the world has ever seen, and we need those Cubans to really show Pulitzer what we've got."

A chorus of "yeah" and "let's get 'em!" ran rampant around the restaurant. I peered around for any perturbed and disturbed customers and sighed as I found none.

"So, Jack," someone called out invisibly. "What do we gotta do?"

Jack addressed a few last minute details of the next day's rally to the crowd around him and the meeting ended. They all seemed so happy, so wholeheartedly eager about their venture that I couldn't help but feel guilty. Guilty because Carlos had unknowingly mislead them, guilty because he would end up disappointing them, and guilty because I didn't do more to help.

I immediately made up my mind to find excuses why it wasn't my fault.

David pulled on the wet napkin I had been destroying and interrupted my desperate reverie. Carlos had stood up from the booth and was talking excitedly to a boy next to him and paid no attention to our conversation.

"Is what he said true?" David asked in a hushed voice.

My eyes must have narrowed and my mouth dropped.

"I'm just asking because it sounds too good to be true. It was hard enough for us to get other _newsies_ to join."

Guilt and surprise tend to bring out the worst in me (unfortunately, not the first time it had happened) so I shot back. "Well, if he says it's true then it's true. Carlos isn't a liar."

Davey raised his eyebrows. "I didn't mean to –" he started to say, but I interrupted him, not wanting to continue the conversation.

"So are all the New York boroughs really going to be at the rally tomorrow?"

He sighed almost imperceptibly, as if he knew my diversion tactics. "Yeah, it's true. And _The__ Sun_ will be there, too. We have a friend who writes for them that I think you should meet; his name is Bryan Denton. He was a war correspondent in Cuba during the war. You'll like him."

I scoffed because I was still in a put-off mood. I was surprised when David laughed. "Trust me, Izzie, you'll like him. Maybe he's been to where you're from."

The bitterness rose up in me again inexplicably, as David had only been kind to me and had tolerated my cruel remarks. Did that stop me? Absolutely not.

"What makes you so confident this rally is going to work?"

Davey looked at me and half-smiled. "Because we're right. Justice always wins in the end."

The eagerness in his smile won me over, if only for a moment. I looked up at noticed that everyone except Jack, David, Carlos and I had left.

"Where did everybody go?" I said.

Carlos walked over. "Well, Izzie, I suppose I should get you home."

I stood up and Carlos started talking with David. I saw Jack standing by the door and walked over to him.

"Well, good night."

"Good work, Cuba," he said to me, not a trace of a smile on his face.

"What work? Carlos did all the talking," I said, shrugging.

The cowboy smirk came out of hiding. Jack slung his arm around my shoulder and said, "Just take the compliment, alright? I don't give 'em out for free."

I smiled, shook my head and pushed his arm off me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>When you're waiting for something, someone, <em>anything<em>, time has the habit of passing as slow as the thickest molasses. It was the day of the rally, and there I sat, fingers wobbling, eyes darting, heart racing, simply waiting for the clock's hands to move just a little bit quicker. The seconds ticked by so slowly the hands seemed to be going backwards.

Unfortunately for me, my nervousness manifested itself in clumsiness, and Caroline Woods noticed (as if she wouldn't). In passing, I accidentally tipped over a table of her beloved hat mannequins and send them sprawling across the shop floor – grotesque felt heads rolling violently from their invisible bodies. My punishment was to organize all hundreds (or rather, thousands) of hat boxes in the back room, sweep the floor, dust the shelves, and on and on and on until Caroline Woods couldn't stand to even look at me anymore.

At precisely four o'clock I bolted out of the shop, hurtled home and threw myself into my room. Today was the day I was going to wear The Dress. Of course, I wore a dress nearly every day, but this was a dress for the books. This was the dress I had always dreamed of, and had finally been able to buy with my meager savings from the millinery. This was My Dress.

It was canary yellow (Lola said yellow was _my_ color), simple and, most importantly, clean. It had no pockets like my daily dresses, or stains from the invisible hole in my mouth. It had been hiding in the deep recesses of my closet for two years, and tonight was its big night. Sure, it was just a rally for poor kids, I knew that well enough, but I had the distinct feeling I wouldn't get a chance to wear it again for quite some time.

I walked out of my room to find my father standing in front of me.

"Dios mío, Isabel. You look wonderful," he said, his head cocked to the left just so. "What's the occasion?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my long lost dress. "Thanks, papá. It's been a while since I've worn it, so I figured I'd air it out."

"Are you going out with Carlos again?"

My mouth clamped shut and my brain went to work full force. It was Decision Time. Tell him I was going with Carlos and risk having him think we were more than 'just friends', or tell him where I was really going.

"Well, he'll be there…"

For the first time in my life, my father smirked. I wished I didn't know what he was thinking.

"You two have been spending a lot of time together. Is there something I should know, Isabel?"

I stuttered, unsure of what I should say. "Oh, p-p-please, papa, Carlos and I are just friends."

The smirk grew wider.

"I swear! Besides, he's too busy flirting with any girl that walks pass him to even remember me."

"Well," he said, prolonging a conversation I was desperate to finish. "Maybe that could change. I would think things might even change tonight, him seeing you in that dress."

"Please, papa, I don't want anything to change. I promise you that nothing is going on between me and Carlos, and it never will. All right?"

He shrugged. "We'll see."

I started to walk to the door and skidded on the high heels I was unused to wearing. "No, we won't see. I'll be back later."

"Be careful!" he called as I walked out the door.

It was a risk having told my father about Carlos. I hoped he would simply have a good chuckle at the fact, but the truth was that there was a possibility he would be genuinely concerned and call Mrs. Martinez to corroborate my story. I hadn't asked Carlos if he had told his mother about the strike, but all bets were on that he hadn't. Mrs. Martinez wasn't a mother to take lightly to son rebelling against authority.

Carlos was already waiting for me on the stoop.

"Jeez, what took you so long?" he said, pushing up his sleeve to look at his invisible watch.

"Oh, pipe down, Carlos. You couldn't have waited for very long."

He looked me up and down and winked, clearly impervious to any and all of my insults. "You look really great, Izzie."

"Oh," I said, waving my hand. "Let's just go." I had no patience for compliments, especially those I didn't deserve.

It hadn't been very long since my first trip to Irving Hall, but I hardly recognized it. The building was lit up as bright as a kid on Christmas, and people were milling all about the entrance. Music vibrated through the walls of the lobby, hiking the nervous energy up to an unnerving level. There was not a frown to be found in the crowd, and for everyone else's sake I was glad for it. It was going to be difficult to frown with so many smiles around.

I turned to see Carlos searching the crowds.

"I don't see anyone, Izzie."

"What are you talking about, Carlos? Jack and David are right over there, and look – there's Blink."

"No, that's not what I mean. None of the Cuban kids we recruited are here."

I desperately wanted to correct his use of "we" but I kept my mouth shut.

"Maybe they're just late, Carlos. Give them a chance, they'll show up."

Who was I kidding? But he looked so disappointed; I hated to knock him down another rung.

Race and Blink waved a happy hello to us from their place on the balcony, Skittery gave us both a strong handshake and a shake of his hair, and Jack and David nodded us over to their table, where I was informed that they, along with a certain Spot Conlon from Brooklyn, would soon speak.

If it isn't clear to you now, there is something you should know: I knew next to nothing about the newsies in Manhattan, and even less about the newsies in Brooklyn. When Jack mentioned that the famous Spot Conlon was to arrive soon, I gave an ignorant shrug, but I noticed that Carlos's jaw set and his eyebrows furrowed just enough. He gave a curt nod and I knew something was wrong. As long as I had known Carlos, he had _never_ been curt. My nervous level jumped nearly a hundred points.

A very pretty, dainty, and all-around lovely girl I didn't recognize was sitting at the table. As we had not been introduced and as I am not the most amiable of people, I planned on spending an awkward evening sitting next to her, getting by with a smile here and a nod there, and generally avoiding any normal conversation. Far be it from me to introduce myself.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), she and I were in no ways alike.

"Hi," she said, smiling and offering a refreshingly un-gloved hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Sarah."

I bit my lip and took her hand in mine, overly conscious of my abused nails. "I'm Izzie."

"It's nice to meet you," she said, giving me a polite nod as she put her hand back in her lap. "David's told me about you. It's sure nice of you to help them with their strike. It's very important to them – but I suppose you know that."

My interest was piqued. After all, who _was_ she, and why was she sitting at Jack and David's table?

"David told you about me?"

"Of course – he's told us all about the great things you've done to help them."

"I don't mean to be rude, but why would David talk to you about me?"

"Oh," she said, understanding softening her face. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm his sister."

I barely managed to keep my hand from slapping me across the mouth.

"Ah, I see," I said, nodding my head too quickly. "Yeah, well, I'm doing my best, I guess. They tell me what to do and I do it." Actually, when put it like that, I didn't like the looks of things at all.

"Well," Sarah said, inclining her head slightly. "I think you're awfully brave. I wouldn't have dared to do half the things you've done, from what they've told me."

I was about to protest profusely, but I turned when I heard Jack call to me and Carlos. "So where are those kids you two promised?"

I saw Carlos's face pale. Iron-rich blood against my tongue nearly made me gag.

Carlos smiled waveringly and said, "I'm pretty sure they'll be here soon."

He shot me a look as Jack turned away. There was nothing I could do for him but shrug my shoulders unhelpfully.

Just before the show was to officially start, I saw Pancho sneak into the theater with two of Carlos's friends behind him. From the looks on their faces, they were not happy to be there. I imagined that the only reason they had shown up was because they didn't want to risk losing Carlos's female connections.

I whistled to Carlos and nodded in their direction, thankful he didn't have to suffer complete and utter embarrassment. His face lit up with hope for a moment when he saw them, but it disappeared in a flash. I saw Jack watch closely as Carlos left the table and went to badger them for what I assume was the horrible turnout. I was annoyed to see that Jack wasn't surprised. Carlos may have been an arrogant, pushy, over enthusiast, but he was my friend and deserved at least some respect.

So I was left as the lone Cuban at the table. Davey leaned over to me and asked, "What happened?"

Tired of making excuses for Carlos (of which he was not aware), I sighed.

"It would appear that Carlos isn't the great persuader he thought he was."

David laughed under his breath but I could see in his face the surprise that Jack had lacked at the poor turnout. Guilt grabbed cloyingly at my diaphragm.

"I'm sorry, Davey."

David looked at me and shrugged. "Every kid counts."

It was nice of him to say, but I wasn't so sure.

I was staring into the smooth flame of the oil lamp in front of me when I heard the hollow knock of wood against wood. I turned around instinctively, as the sound came from around where I imagined Carlos would be.

There was Carlos, as I had pictured, but he wasn't alone. Facing Carlos, with a group of roughandtumble kids behind him, was a boy (if you could call him that). He was shorter than Carlos, but only by a little and was much scarier, confidently scowling at my best friend's brother, tapping a gold-tipped cane on the ground in front of him.

As much as I should have raced to Carlos's rescue (ha!), I couldn't tear my eyes off the boy. Not for any superficial attraction, but rather because I found him intensely interesting. He was short and scrawny, but had a disposition to match the strongest man in the world. He carried a cane, and the only people I had ever known to carry a cane were the old men that sat on the corner on rainy days. Such blatant disregard for conformity fascinated me. Kind of like Jack's ten gallon hat.

"Ya got some nerve showin' up here, kid," the boy said to Carlos, who was standing with his fists dangerously clenched at his sides.

"I could say the same to you," Carlos said nonsensically.

The boy made no remark to Carlos's jab, but smirked. "So where'd they catch ya next? Not Manhattan – Jacky wouldn't have let ya in if he'd caught ya sellin' in his territory."

"I don't sell papes anymore."

"Ya mean ya can't."

Carlos took a step forward. I tried to pry myself off my chair, but my legs were glued.

"What's the big deal, Conlon, were you scared a new kid could sell better than you?"

The boy's smirk widened. "Nah, I just didn't want people thinkin' ya were one o' mine. Ya woulda given me newsies a bad reputation."

Carlos launched forward, I launched off my chair and Jack launched in between the two of them. I grabbed Carlos by the arm, desperate to avoid a scene. I nearly choked when I saw Jack offer his hand to the kid. Where was loyalty when you needed it?

"Spot," Jack said to the boy as he shook the boy's hand. "This is Carlos and Izzie. They're helpin' us wit the strike."

The boy still had his eyes on Carlos, but slowly moved them to me. "This is the broad that went up against Pulitzer?"

Excuse me? Who else knew about my failed mission?

"She's the one."

I stood uncomfortably as the boy looked me up and down. I had hoped Carlos would stand up for my honor (I know), but he stood mute next to me.

He finished his glance at me and moved to Jack. "The rally's lookin' pretty good."

Was I really that easily forgotten?

I saw Jack puff up his chest in pride. "Not bad, eh?"

They walked to the table and sat down. I saw no introductions being made, and was flabbergasted that David was familiar with such a criminal. Or that Jack had such poor manners.

As I was confusedly watching Jack and his friends warmly welcome Sir Spot Conlon to their group, Carlos wrenched his arm out of my grasp.

Before I continue, I'd like to insert something here: I know nothing about boys. It's important that you understand that, because what happened next came right out of left field, in my opinion. To put it in other words: never in my wildest dreams would I have done what Carlos was about to do.

Seemingly energized by the violent turn of events, Carlos's few friends followed his charge forward, heading straight for Jack's table.

As much as I wanted to close my eyes and pretend nothing would happen, I couldn't. My sick curiosity took its vengeance, and I watched. To this day, I'm still ashamed I didn't make one move to stop the train wreck that was about to happen in front of me.


	14. Chapter 14

Thank you, dear Paisley, for your consistently encouraging reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>Stained, bacteria-laden teeth hung about on the floor, looking grotesque in the absence of their due pearly neighbors. Precisely spattered blood lined the collars of five boys, who looked at the violent artwork and wondered how it got there.<p>

Of course, those were only the images in my head of the fight to come. Something entirely different happened – better or worse, I'm still not entirely sure.

Yes, Carlos was plowing ahead with his friends behind him and I was left with two choices – either watch the gruesome scene that was about to happen, or do something to try to stop it.

Considering who I am, what happened next surprised me.

Something in my legs pushed me forward to run after Carlos. I grabbed his arm and felt the muscle already tense beneath his shirt. He was ready for the fight.

"Carlos, come on, just let it go."

He turned and looked at me with fire in his eyes. The easy going, skirt-chasing Carlos was long gone.

"Izzie, you better let me go."

"Who cares what he says? He's not even from around here."

"Izzie, if you don't let go, I swear –"

"Carlos, just listen –"

He flung my entire body weight off his shoulder. I must have been subconsciously expecting it, because I barely managed to avoid falling over on my face.

It could have ended there. And it should have ended there, but good old Izzie had to shake things up at the wrong moment.

With all the strength I had left, I grabbed Carlos's arm again and forced him around to face me. His wide eyes betrayed his surprise at my sudden strength.

Face to face with my best friend's brother, with my friend, I did something I never thought I would do.

I punched him.

My fist connected with the softest part of his stomach, hard enough for him to double over after a brutal gasp of air. I heard his friends step back and prayed no one else had seen. Especially Spot Conlon.

I looked up to check for observers. Spot Conlon was thankfully sitting still with his back to the scene, in a hearty conversation with Jack. His goonies were clearly occupied with their drinks, and Sarah was looking off into the crowd. So far, so good.

But one pair of blue eyes connected with mine as I was about to turn back to Carlos. David, clear eyes wide as the Atlantic Ocean, was staring hard at me. How could I describe his expression? He wasn't confused, that was for certain. It was more of a fearful understanding, as if he had imagined the same scene that had appeared in my mind, and was astonished I had taken the most difficult route. He wasn't the only one.

Carlos growled as he tried to stand up and I was forced to tear my eyes away from David's. I bent down and reached out my hand to help him up – the biggest mistake I could have made.

"Don't touch me."

Those were the last words Carlos said to me. Perhaps I had been expecting understanding for my actions. Perhaps I hoped I hadn't really hit him as hard as I thought. Perhaps I thought he would still be my friend.

Whatever I had thought was utterly, completely, and embarrassingly wrong.

I stood up quickly, afraid of his venomous retort. Clutching his tender stomach, he rose with the help of his two friends, who had gotten over their surprise at me to reach under Carlos's arms and lift him up. With one last glare, they turned him around and brought him to a table on the other side of the theater.

What was there left to do? I watched after them for an embarrassing amount of time, and went back to sit down at my place. I could feel David's eyes follow my movements, but I didn't have the heart to look at him.

Although he had been talking and smirking before, the moment I sat down Spot Conlon stopped all conversation. I wavered for a moment, worried he had somehow seen what had happened behind his all-knowing back.

Luckily for Carlos and me, he simply stared at me for a moment and resumed chatting with his goonies. I breathed out and relaxed, only slightly, in my chair, still avoiding my curly-haired friend's questioning face.

"Nice start to the evening, don't you think?"

I started at the voice and turned to see the last person I would have ever suspected giving me a sly smile.

"Excuse me?" I said, my hands sweating more by the minute.

The smirk gone, Sarah leaned in and whispered, "Would you mind teaching me how to throw a punch like that sometime?"

"I… well… I mean." My words failed me miserably. "Sure, I guess."

The deceivingly innocent smile I remembered returned to her face. What just happened?

I chatted with Sarah until a couple minutes later Jack, David and Spot got up on stage. To soak, or not to soak – that was the question of the hour. Everyone around me (save for Sarah, of course) seemed pretty interested in the answer.

David, to my intense relief, was on the "not to soak" side.

"That's what they want us to do! If we get violent, it's just playing into their hands!"

I looked around, hoping there were others who felt the same way. I was intensely adverse to soaking newsies, under any and all circumstances. I certainly didn't get involved with a strike for the promise of violence.

Spot, as I had inferred, felt differently.

"Nobody ain't gonna listen to us unless we make 'em."

Cheers erupted and I was downcast. Sarah looked disturbed, and Les appeared indifferent.

In the end it was Jack who made everyone see reason (thankfully).

"If we don't act together, then we're nothing. If we don't stick together, then we're nothing. And if we can't even trust each other, then we're nothing."

It came down to not to soak, which disappointed some of the more muscular kids I saw and delighted some of the more scrawny fellows.

After a glare and a pause, Spot agreed. Hands from every which way clapped the three of them on the back as they sat down again.

I shot Jack and David a half-smile as they sat down.

"Congratulations," I heard Sarah whisper into Jack's ear (an accidental eavesdrop, I swear).

He looked seriously into her eyes. "Thanks," he said, winking a moment later to lighten the moment.

My heart dropped, but only a step.

Now, I've had a lot of time to think about everything and I can tell you officially, no, I was not in love with Jack Kelly. I hadn't even considered the notion until that moment, seeing as my heart had been hardened for so long.

What I can tell you is that for the first time since I could remember, I felt jealous. Not jealous of romantic attention, certainly not. Rather, I was jealous because I had grown accustomed to being the only girl in our rag-tag group of kids. It was nice being the center of positive attention for once, no matter how badly I had messed up my meeting with Pulitzer, no matter how angry I was they had handed everything over to Carlos. I was still at the center of it all, and despite all my complaining I had liked it.

So when I realized that Jack and Sarah were more than just friends, I got a little jealous. The leader of the strike that had taken over my life of late was no longer focused on me, but on David's sister. It hurt my heart a little, but only a little.

I got over it in a snap. There were much bigger fish to fry at the moment.

In a moment, the lights dimmed, the curtains opened, and purple satin graced the stage.

"Hello newsies; what's new?"

The over the top flirtation and gaudy dress was not my particular style, but I could certainly see where her popularity came from. Her genuine smile, teeth as white as lightning, hair the color of summer sunsets – well, one could say she was the epitome of feminine charm.

Forgetting what had happened minutes earlier, I turned to look at Carlos – the infamous womanizer who surely would appreciate such a show. The slight scowl on his face reminded me of my heavy hand, but it was clear he was nearly hypnotized. His eyes followed Medda's every move across the stage and frowned in disappointment when she disappeared behind a crowd of newsies.

I grinned – Lola would have laughed.

Then came the second heart drop of the evening. I wondered – what was Lola doing at that precise moment? Stewing in her room, cursing my name and very existence? Unlikely – that sounded more like me. It was more probable that she'd be out, perhaps strolling with one of her admirers or looking for a new best friend.

A new best friend. She'd find one too, and I knew it.

What I didn't know was if _I_ would be able to find one.

The crowds around stood up and cheered so loudly I thought the balconies would crumble beneath their excited feet. Feeling a surge of camaraderie, I clapped my sweaty hands and allowed myself to be entertained.

"She's pretty good, isn't she?" David said, leaning over.

"Sure, she's pretty good," I said, smiling with rare genuineness. "How do you know her?"

David paused for a moment, as if he were remembering the exact scenario. "Jack introduced me. He's known her for a long time; I guess she was a friend of his father's."

"His father?" I said with an unfortunate incredulous tone, and immediately regretted having spoken.

David's face contorted into a confused frown. "What? Do you think newsies don't have families?"

Oh boy, I'd really done it. "No, I just –," I started to say, wanting to relieve the tension. The collective strength in the air stopped me, and I spoke my mind. "No, I guess I didn't think they did."

He was, justifiably, disturbed. "We're not all orphans, you know. Some of us just want to make some extra money to help out, that's all."

I leaned forward and put my hand on his, feeling the need to appease him rise up in me once again. "Look, I didn't mean to insult you, Davey, I didn't mean it like that. It's just… well, you don't think of these kids as having families. They all seem like they can take care of themselves."

He stared at me solemnly. "They can."

I nodded and put my hand back in my lap.

"Selling papes isn't so bad," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Les and I make pretty good money and it helps with the expenses."

"So… you have a family?" I hoped he wouldn't get angry again, but he hadn't ever mentioned his parents and I was curious.

"Yes. A mother and father, just like yours."

I grimaced at the memory of my mother and looked away, hoping he hadn't seen.

A wild Race passed by us, slapping David on the back and throwing me a devilish grin.

"Hey, ya bums, get up here and dance!"

Both David and I smiled complacently, yelling empty promises Race didn't care to hear.

Fiddling with my folded hands in my lap and looking everywhere except at David, I prayed he wouldn't ask.

"You have a family, don't you, Izzie?"

There was such a soft concern in his voice I almost brought myself to cry. I looked at him and waited a moment before saying anything.

"Yes, I have a family. My father makes cigars over on Franklin Street."

David nodded. "I think I know the place – I always pass by there on Thursdays when I pick up bread. My clothes always smell ashy when I come home."

I laughed and looked him in the eye. "That's what he smells like all the time. Even after a change of clothes and a good wash."

He smiled for a moment and I forgot about all the ruckus around us. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn't ready to pull my hair out, strand by strand.

His face turned solemn. "What about your mother?"

The dreaded question. The question I was hoping to avoid.

I looked down and pulled at my thumb web. "I don't have a mother."

David didn't respond, and I thought perhaps I had said it too softly for him to hear; however, when I looked up and saw his face, I knew he'd heard every last whisper.

"It's all right," I said to his unvoiced question. "I just don't talk about it much."

"I can understand why."

I bit my nails, praying I could hold back the unspoken words forming in my mouth.

"I don't really miss her."

David's look of solemnity metamorphosed into the look of horror I feared.

"What I mean is," I said, choosing my words now more carefully. "I've just come to terms with it after so many years. She died when I was just a baby."

That I didn't miss her was a lie through and through, but I had waited so long to tell someone the same lie I had told myself for seventeen years that I couldn't hold it in any longer. I had hoped that if I told someone else my lie that it would become true.

He didn't say anything so I continued with my farce. "People always ask me if I'm sad. They'll say: How terrible it must be; you have no one to dress you, to talk with you, to spoil you? I always want to say: How can I miss what I never knew I had? Sure, I miss the idea of her. But I don't know what she was really like, anyway."

I stopped the flow of words and simply watched David's face. He was silent for a few moments, but he finally said, "She was probably just like you."

The words went straight through my skin, past the bone, right into my heart. I had told David what I had always wanted to tell someone, and he had told me what I had always wanted to hear.

It took me a moment to get up the courage to face him again, and when I did, I realized he wasn't looking at me but rather looking past me. I followed his eyes behind me, the ridiculous look of stupefaction carved on my face.

There was an uproar on the other side of the room. For a moment I thought Carlos had gotten into it with Spot Conlon again, but a flash of blue and the sparkle of silver caused my heart to drop for the third time that night.


	15. Chapter 15

Thank you to Austra, Paisley, and Spazziness, who have so kindly given me their overwhelming support! Izzie wishes you a Happy New Year :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

* * *

><p>My heart may have dropped to my toes at the sight of my most dangerous nemeses, but it was a sad fact that I was used to such surprise occurrences, and I had Jack Kelly to thank for that.<p>

Both David and I jumped up when we saw the bulls, simultaneously knocking our chairs to the ground. As the kids around us realized what was happening, chaos became more and more inevitable. Hundreds of bodies crashed against each other in a desperate attempt to reach any and every exit, and the blood and gore I had managed to avoid with Carlos and Spot Conlon was suddenly surrounding me in an unexpected ring of red.

Jack was on the stage with Medda, ignorant to the abounding dangers around him. David turned to me.

"Izzie, take Sarah and Les and get them out of here. I'm going to get Jack."

"What? But I – "

"Look, I think there's an exit over there. Just get them out of here, all right?"

He dashed off towards the stage. Dear David, whom I had known to be quite sensible, was going straight into the fray.

I turned around and saw Sarah and Les, sitting terrified in their seats and clutching each other, watching helplessly as their brother ran off to save the day.

"Come on," I said. "We've gotta go."

Pulling a reluctant Les into my arms, I grabbed Sarah's hand and made for the door David had indicated. I stopped for a moment and looked around desperately for Carlos. Yes, despite the fact that I knew he wanted to cut all the hair off my head, I wanted to make sure he was all right.

Chaos reigned. People were running left and right and I wondered if Carlos had already managed to escape. I turned around in circles (looking quite ridiculous, I'm sure), Sarah watching me confusedly nearby, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Carlos being dragged off by the police, his hand clutching his bruised stomach once again.

Upsetting? You bet. Not only had I socked my best friend's brother in the stomach, but I had a pretty strong hand in his arrest as well. It was not shaping up to be the best of nights.

Les pulled at my shoulder and I realized we had no time for mourning. Sure, I was devastated that Carlos was being hauled off to the slammer, but I had been given a responsibility, and I wasn't about to let David's siblings suffer the same fate. Besides, it wasn't likely Carlos was going to accept help from his earlier aggressor anyway.

I nudged Sarah forward and we ran, Les jangling around clumsily in my arms. Yes, we were on our way, but not before I caught a good glimpse of one of the officers glaring at me with hateful, burning eyes.

Yes – out of a room full of bulls and newsies, the one I had made crash into an innocent woman days earlier was there, and he had spotted me.

My arms squeezed Les so tightly he whimpered and I let him go a bit. With Sarah's hand in mine, I dashed to the doorway, praying there wasn't a hoard of newsies trying the same door.

We ran down the narrow hallway, the sound of thousands of feet shaking the wooden floor beneath us. At every other step I turned around, dreading to see the face of my tormentor and hoping the mass of kids were blocking his way.

We stopped near the end of the hallway and saw its door hanging open. I stopped cold, nearly knocking Sarah to the floor with my shoulder. I could see the moldy bricks of the alley outside calling to us, but I knew better than to trust an open door. Best case scenario: other kids had found the same way out. Worst case scenario: police officers were searching the area and carelessly left the door ajar.

The heavy thud of boots on the outside pavement proved my theory.

There wasn't time to run all the way back down the hall to the theater with a bitter officer on our trail, so I looked around for an alternative escape. Sarah must have been doing the same, because moments later I felt her grab at my sleeve.

"Izzie, look," she said as she pointed to the only door next to us.

Stairs.

I could have thrown myself into her arms for relief, but with a small child clinging around my neck I figured such a gesture wouldn't end well. Instead, I pushed the door open, grabbed her hand and the three of us made a mad dash up the (albeit rickety) metal stairs.

We were about halfway to the top when the stairs jolted beneath us. I looked down between the stairs and sure enough, a red face with a blue uniform was hurtling up the rickety structure. Clearly there was no time to waste.

We scrambled up the remaining stairs, never stopping even when the door to the roof jammed on us. I handed Les to Sarah, who stood by, breathing hard and making me nervous, while I threw my body weight against the door while jangling the handle.

The door flew open violently and I spilled onto the roof. I heard Sarah let out a cry of what I assumed was worry, but I ushered her and Les out and slammed the door behind us. Before she could reach out to check on me, I got up, ran to the edge of the building and looked down for some sort of escape.

Nothing but concrete.

I ran to the next edge – the same sickening pavement. I could hear the officer coming up the stairs, much more nimbly than I had anticipated.

The last edge was the same as all the others, but with one crucial, beautiful difference: the border it shared with the building next door was much closer than the rest.

It was decision time for Izzie Romero: wait for the officer to drag us away or jump.

Had I been alone, the decision would have been easy: me and my willful pride never would have accepted being captured by the enemy.

But I wasn't alone. I was in charge of David's sister and little brother. Jail and familial disappointment could be bad, but plummeting would be worse.

Luckily, the decision was made without me.

"Go on, Izzie, jump. We'll come after you."

I turned, dumbfounded, to face Sarah, who was still cradling a surprisingly calm and silent Les in her pale arms.

"No, no, there has to be another way. I just need a minute to think."

"Izzie, it's the only way. We have to do it." She gave me a wavering smile.

I stood staring at her. Should I believe her? Was she only saying it because she wanted to protect me?

A body slam against the roof door threw me into action.

I took Les from Sarah's arms. "You have to go first, Sarah."

She looked terrified, but I knew there was no other choice. "You have to trust me. Just take a long jump and stretch your body out as much as you can."

"But what about you and Les?"

"I'm used to carrying heavy things while I'm running. Jumping can't be any different." She nodded as if she believed me. I certainly wasn't going to tell her that hats were significantly lighter than unexpectedly solid Les.

She turned to face the challenge. She climbed unsurely onto the ledge, her hands clearly shaking. Oh, how I wished in that moment I had never met Jack Kelly!

Was Sarah thinking the same thing?

Another slam against the door nearly sent Sarah into the dark abyss at her feet. I screamed, she screamed, Les screamed, and I grabbed her dress as she tried to balance herself. After a moment of heavy breathing and with a commendably brave, concentrated effort, Sarah stood up on the ledge again.

I had to force my eyes to stay open as she jumped.

The entire scene passed in slow motion in front of me, likely from the chilling terror I was feeling. Her dress was like gossamer as it flew through the night air, freely dancing in the wind, unaware of the dangers we were escaping. It would have been a moving sight, if the officer hadn't broken down the door the moment Sarah landed.

I looked back at the officer stumbling through the broken door, then turning to look at Sarah who was, thankfully, safe on the other side. Clutching Les tightly, I climbed on the ledge.

"I'm sorry, Les," I whispered without thinking.

He moved his head closer to my ear. "It's all right, Izzie."

I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined myself jumping across. My breathing slowed, my muscles relaxed a bit, and I saw myself flying, Les with his arms extended, across the towering buildings.

But there was something wrong. I opened my eyes and hopped off the ledge, walking a few paces back towards the door and the officer.

"Izzie, what are you doing?" I heard Sarah scream. Les's earlier tranquility vanished, and he scratched desperately at the skin on my neck.

My mind and body were calm as we walked, and I saw the officer hesitate for a moment, as confused as anyone as to why I was walking toward him rather than away.

I was right where I needed to be.

Turning around in a flash, I took off, Les as secure in my arms as a precious velvet hat box. I could feel miniscule drops of blood glide down my neck as he scrambled to hold on to me, suddenly frightened again.

Momentum built up as my feet dashed across the roof, one after another. My eyes focused on Sarah on the other side, whose mouth was moving in a scream but no sound reached my ears. This was my mission – no amount of screaming was going to stop me now.

We got to the ledge and I felt my body lift, my feet barely touching the cement before both Les and I were flung mid-air.

I had felt Les's body pulse with a scream, but the moment we were in the air he stopped, as if his lungs had suddenly collapsed. It was a terrifying moment, I'll certainly not deny that, but I felt an adrenaline I had never felt before, not even as I sat next to Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, newspaper magnate extraordinaire.

We hit the roof with a thud and a crouch, and I saw that Sarah had stopped screaming. I gave her a quick smirk, stood up with Les and pulled her to follow me.

We certainly weren't out of the woods yet.

We pelted across the roof while the officer screamed obscenities at empty air. He obviously felt the same hesitation at jumping we had, but I had no doubt he'd do it at some point or another, and I didn't want to be around when he did.

We came to the end of the roof. We needed a definitive escape – running all night across the Manhattan rooftops wasn't going to cut it. The officer was gaining on us, and I knew we hadn't stopped him for long with that little trick.

Thankfully, the perfect (yet dangerous) escape found _us_ this time. The clotheslines strung from window to window, roof to floor, made it apparent we were atop a tenement building. At our feet were clotheslines anchored to the roof, connected to a massive wooden pole in the middle of the courtyard – a geometric tree of string in the middle of the city.

Ideas were swimming through my mind as I heard the wallop of the officer falling onto our roof. I looked back and sure enough, there he was, grumbling and moaning, pulling himself clumsily up as fast as he clumsily could.

I turned back to our escape and saw that Sarah had already captured the vague ideas floating in my mind. With nary a word, she lowered herself (shaking perilously, if you ask me) gingerly onto the thickest of the clotheslines. With both hands on the rope, she dropped, her hands gripping our only salvation.

I nearly vomited everything I had eaten for the past month. Which I should have, now that I'm thinking about it – the rope would have appreciated a lesser load, I'm sure.

When she stopped swinging around like a light bulb on a wire, she moved one hand in front of the other, inching herself towards the center pole.

Not wanting to waste any time, I plopped Les down on the roof. As silently and complacently as his sister, he followed her along the rope in her acrobatic dance.

I turned to get one last look at the officer, who had seemingly hurt his ankle in the fall and was careening from side to side with a murderous scowl on his face. I smiled – perhaps by a hair, but we were going to make it.

I climbed onto the rope next to Sarah and Les, who were nearly at the central pole. It wobbled and I dropped a bit, nearly screaming, but to my eternal relief it held fast. Arm muscles burning, hands chafing, I made my way to the central pole which Sarah and Les had already managed to climb down.

With both arms wrapped tightly around the wooden beam, one hand then the other let go of my rope and slid down, garnering splinters everywhere. At each rope below me I stopped, caught my breath and slid down a bit more until I was at the bottom.

After a moment of bewilderment, the three of us exploded with laughter. It was a moment of victory we were never expecting. Even if the officer had seen where we went, which surely he did, none of the ropes would have held his bulky weight. I hoped he knew it too, because I didn't want to be a witness to an accidental fall.

Even if he went back down to the theater and around to the tenement building we were currently standing in the middle of, he would have to get a search warrant for the entire building, and that wasn't going to be easy.

As if on cue, we heard a shout from above. Even in the dark I could see the purplish hue of my pursuer's face as he gave full use of his vocal chords. I gave him a wave and he disappeared into the bricks above.

It was a moment of freedom for the three of us, until we realized we were blocked in the middle of a courtyard, in the dead of night. There was no easy exit out of this one. The three of us split up to walk around the square courtyard, looking for a hole in a wall or an open door through which to escape.

"Here! Over here!" Les cried.

Sarah and I jogged over. It was a door, just like all the others.

"Les, you were supposed to find an _open_ door," I said, turning back to continue the search.

He grabbed at my hand and pulled me back. "No, Izzie, look. It's open."

I leaned forward and sure enough, the warped wood caused the door to hang ajar. A good find, and just what we were looking for, but I was no fool: the chances were slight that the door would lead us right outside. Likely we'd face another barrage of obstacles before even coming close to the streets outside.

But what choice did we have? Either wait for the officer to get his warrant or risk running into a disgruntled tenant.

I looked at Les: giddy with pride. I looked at Sarah: no expression. It was my call this time.

"All right. Follow me and whatever you do, don't stop, don't look back."

They nodded.

Did I knock quietly in the hopes that some insomnious tenant would generously let us in?

Of course not.

Still high off of the adrenaline of our high-flying upside-down trapeze act, I ran through the door at full force. Thankfully, it gave way easily and we were able to bolt down the hall. We jumped over a dog sleeping in the middle of the hall. Some dog it was, because it only gave an exhausted bark and set its head back on its paws.

The hallway we were running through was coming to an end. A door to the left, another hall to the right. Of course, we turned to the right, but at that precise moment the angry drunk man I had invented in my worst case nightmare came out of the door of the left.

"What in the hell?" he bellowed, rubbing his eyes with a cannonball fist.

Sarah gave a small yelp as we hurtled by him, snapping him out of his sleep.

"Hey!" he said, and started towards us. "You damn kids, get the hell back here!"

"Don't look back!" I screamed at Sarah and Les behind me. "Just keep going!"

The hallway led to the kitchen with dirty pans and plates laid out in careful disarray. Les slipped on a greasy pan, nearly sending him face first into a pile of who-knows-what-muck, but I grabbed his hand while Sarah pulled him up by the shoulders.

Did we make it? Are you on the edge of your seat?

All right, all right, we did, but not before I smacked my head against a low-lying shelf and Sarah scraped her knee against the kitchen table. We managed to cross the kitchen and found ourselves at the front entrance, only to find the door was locked.

But of course.

The fat man nearly grabbed Sarah's hair as I got the door unlocked with a flip of my hand.

We flew out of that front door like a thief fleeing from his disappointed (and strong-armed) mother.

Curses flew at us from behind, but we kept on running, as far away from the theatre as possible. Sarah led the way to her apartment.

"Please, Izzie, just stay the night. You shouldn't be walking around by yourself."

I shuffled my feet at the door. "I'll be all right; I can find my way back." As nice as the thought was, I was certainly not in the mood for Mrs. Jacobs's kindly scowl again.

Sarah furrowed her brow, but let me be. I was anxious to get home, but something in her frown told me she was worried about something other than my trip back.

"Don't worry, Sarah, David will be fine." Thinking for a moment, I added, "Jack too. They know how to take care of themselves."

She gave a resigned smile. "I hope so."

"They'll be fine," I said and hoped my overconfident smile didn't give me away.

I could only hope that they were. Oh, and that Lola would help me get her brother out of jail.

Truthfully, I was more worried about the latter than the former.


	16. Chapter 16

Thank you to Paisley and Spazziness! Your reviews make the day a little bit brighter :)

And thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story so far. Your readership is very much appreciated!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>Running, running, running. Another day, another crisis. I had never run so much before in my life as I did that night, and my legs were going to pay for it. Sparing not even a second to catch my breath, I ran straight from Sarah's house to Lola's. Thankfully, the cool night made the exercise easier.<p>

There was, however, a strange mixed feeling in my stomach – relief, knowing all the bulls were at Irving Hall, rounding up the newsies, and guilt, as I assumed I was one of only a few that managed to escape.

No time to think about that now, it was time to run… my specialty.

There were no lights on at Lola's house when I arrived, and while it was to be expected, I cursed my luck anyway. It was going to be quite the trick getting to Lola without waking the entire apartment on the way. I looked around and around and around. If nothing else, being around the newsies taught me that an escape was only a glance away.

The fire escape. Well, a bit more climbing certainly wasn't going to make this night any worse, so I did it. There were a few close calls when the stairs moaned like a whale and I thought perhaps I would finish the lovely evening by plummeting to the ground, but thankfully for my father, he didn't have to plan my funeral just then.

I reached Lola's room on the top floor of the building after huffing and puffing my way up there. Peering around to be sure I was at the right floor, I tapped quietly on the window I hoped was next to Lola's bed. I knew Lola slept with her youngest sister Mercedes, but I hoped against hope that the appropriate person would answer my call. Mercedes was always kind of a loud mouth, and neither Lola nor I would have appreciated her butting her nose into our business anyway.

After waiting a few seconds I got no answer, so I tapped again, a touch rougher this time. Something (someone rather) moved to the right of the window, slow as a tangled up mummy. It came closer and closer until I could recognize Lola's sloppy night hair.

She looked straight at me for a few seconds, and I could tell she was deciding whether or not to open the window. Damn her.

In the end, she humored me and opened up.

"Izzie, what are you doing?"

No concern in her voice, only irritation. No invite inside either, I might add.

"Look, Lola, I know you're mad at me, but I'm not here about me. It's Carlos."

"What about Carlos?"

"He was arrested."

Her eyes widened, but only for a split second before they narrowed to the size of deadly almonds.

"You know, Izzie, this is pretty low, even for you."

I could feel my head jerk back. "What?"

"Coming around here in the middle of the night just to scare me into being friends with you again? You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel for your tactics."

"Lola, I'm not –"

"Would you like me to go get my mother so you can frighten her too?"

"No, I – "

"You've really crossed the line, Izzie."

She started to shut the window, but I grabbed at it and flung it open again, much to her surprise.

"I'm not joking, Lola – Carlos is in jail. I _saw_ him get arrested!"

She sized me up pretty good then.

"Good."

Another jerk of my head. "What do you mean, 'good'? He's your brother, you have to help him!"

Her look of condescension turned into one of casual disdain. "He deserves what he got. In fact, I'm disappointed they didn't arrest you too. Helping the newsies and their strike… You can't be surprised the police showed up. They're criminals after all."

"They're not criminals!"

"Come on, Izzie," she said in a dangerously low voice, folding her arms, "they're street rats. Did you think the police were going to let them throw a rally and be done with it?"

"They're no more street rats than you and I, Lola, and you know it."

Her eyes flashed for a second, be she maintained her eerie calm. "It's the truth, Izzie, even if you don't want to hear it. You're mixing yourself up with a bad crowd. I don't know _what_ has gotten into you, but I don't like it. Now go home."

"What about Carlos?" I was beginning to feel as deflated as a bruised ego.

"Just stay out of our business, Izzie."

And she closed the window.

I sat there for a while, numb and finally cold after my long run. I couldn't help but wonder if my best friend was right; what _had_ gotten into me? Striking up a friendship with nearby newsies, getting myself involved in dangerous plots, throwing punches around as if they were a pat on the back (a bit exaggerated, but you know what I mean).

I was different, that was clear enough. But the question was… was it a bad thing?

I wasn't going to puzzle it out sitting outside Lola's room, so I climbed down and walked home.

Did I go to the courthouse the next day and pay for Carlos's release, as his sister was seemingly content to let him rot in jail?

No, I certainly did not.

Yeah, I get it. I know I should have gone to get him, seeing as he was still a better friend to me than Lola, and that with punching him in the stomach. But I was silly enough to think if I didn't, if I let him sit in jail for a few more hours, at least, it would be a great way to spite Lola. And I what I wanted most was to spite her.

(Clearly, my bitterness had set in overnight.)

I figured the best way to distract myself (and spite Lola at the same time) would be to go to the Lodging House to find Jack and David. After David pushed me off with his sister and little brother in tow, I had neither seen hide nor hair of either of them. It was only a question of chances whether they had escaped or suffered a similar fate to Carlos's, and unfortunately the probability wasn't in their favor.

I arrived at the Lodging House after a brisk walk and knew immediately that something was wrong. There were no clear physical clues as to what it was, but that in itself was a clue for me. This wasn't going to be a pleasant distraction I had hoped.

It was strange walking into the Lodging House, alone this time, to see nary a soul. My friend, the old man behind the counter, wasn't even there to nod me a vague hello. For a place that had been so bustling, its silence was as ghostly as you could imagine. Feeling it perhaps rude to go traipsing around the building yet desperate to know everyone's fate, I decided to go to the next best place – Tibby's.

As I walked up to the door and saw heads of scruffy hair I couldn't help be silently cheer victory that not everyone had been taken into brutal custody. But as I walked in, of course, I realized I was sorely mistaken.

None of the heads turned to greet me as I all but waltzed in. I wasn't so concerned about the fact that they didn't greet _me_; more alarming was the fact that they didn't look up to see who was going through the door at all. It could have been Teddy Roosevelt for all intents and purposes, but no one would have turned. Not a one.

I saw Davey leaning against a beam, his arms folded and head down. His face was contorted in some kind of sick despondency that gave me a shiver just to look at him.

Not knowing the rest of them well enough to interrupt their hopeless solitude, I creeped over to David. I was standing right in front of him and he didn't do a thing. Not a nod, not a wink, not a smirk. Nothing. But what was I expecting?

"Davey?" I asked, feeling my spine double back on itself in fear.

He barely lifted his eyes to look at me.

"What's going on?"

I never should have asked.

It took him a minute to gather up the spirits to answer. "It's ruined."

I flinched, but I had to ask. "Did you… I mean, you didn't all get…"

He lifted his head and I knew it. All of them had spent a sleepless night in a jail cell, while I gallivanted off to freedom.

"Where's Jack?"

Another dangerous question.

"He's locked up."

"He's still in jail? Why isn't he here with the rest of you?"

Oh, such petty questions, Izzie. Why even bother asking?

"None of it mattered, Izzie. Jack's locked up and the rally didn't work."

"What do you mean 'the rally didn't work'? There were so many people there, and the newspapers – "

He pushed himself off the beam and uncrossed his arms, standing straight up and looking down at me.

"It didn't work! The newspapers aren't covering it, so it might as well not have happened."

I paused for a moment. "And Jack?"

"He's gone. They took him to the Refuge."

Now, as unfamiliar as I was about the newsie world, I had certainly heard about The Refuge in passing. I never caught any gruesome details, but from its general reputation and the look on Davey's face, I knew it wasn't a good place for Jack to be.

I looked at all the faces around me – expressions clear that they all might have been in the Refuge themselves.

Race was disconsolate

Blink was morose.

Skittery was…only slightly glummer than when I had seen him before.

So, instead of staying and comforting them in their time of need, I left.

Let me try to explain. I had just definitively lost my best friend and the only other friends I had were about to be taken away from me too. If the strike didn't work, we had nothing in common and therefore had no reason to speak to one another again. They were nice enough, but nice can only take you so far in a doomed relationship.

I was so overwhelmed in that moment by my misfortune (yes, I'm selfish, I know) that I couldn't stand it anymore. I just walked out of that restaurant and stood in the street, staring ahead of me like a dope.

I heard the bell of the door to Tibby's ring several times as who I assumed were the newsies filed out. I didn't bother to go after them and they didn't bother to invite me. I didn't know where they were going, and I didn't care. They were done with me (or so I thought).

I wandered around Manhattan for exactly 5 hours, with no direction whatsoever. was all I had on my mind.

My 5 hour stroll completed, I sat down on a curb. I was desperate and lonely. Feeling particularly sorry for myself, I got up again and walked to Lola's apartment for the second time in the day.

If I had already lost the newsies, there was no reason I shouldn't try to get my best friend back.

Lola just stared when she saw me standing outside her door. I asked her to talk for a minute on the fire escape and she agreed, with a hint of a smirk on her face. Was it legal to try to slap it off her? Never mind, I'd had enough violence to last me a lifetime.

So there we sat, our legs hanging off the metal platform next to each other.

"I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything.

"I don't know why I did it. It just seemed right at the time."

Again, nothing.

"Look, you're my best friend, Lola. I'll give it all up – I just want to be your friend again."

This was, without a doubt, the lowest point in my life thus far. I was so desperate for company that I wasted no time in throwing out the newsies and reeling Lola back in. I was using everyone, and in the end deceiving myself.

I shot a look at Lola out of curiosity. Her eyebrows were knit, so I assumed she was about to reject my apology, but to my surprise she simply said, "All right Izzie."

That one threw me for a loop. "Really?"

"Sure, as long as you don't ever see those boys again."

No problem, I thought to myself. They want nothing to do with me. I'm no use to them anymore.

"All right."

Lola turned and smiled at me and wrapped me in a big hug. A nice gesture, but it felt entirely false. I had no doubt Lola really wanted to be my friend again, but deep down she must have known what had really brought me back to her.

At that moment, I didn't care, and she didn't care. We were "friends" again, and would go back to the same routine as always.

It hit me. "Lola, but what happened to Carlos?"

"Oh," she said, waving off the question as if I had merely asked if she passed a test. "My mother went and got him this morning."

"Is he all right?"

"For the most part. He keeps complaining about a bruise on his stomach."

"Oh," I said, averting my eyes. "That's too bad."

"I think it was one of those newsies."

Lola could be really daft sometimes. It was just like her to think I would turn right around and start bad mouthing them with her.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Sure. Buenas noches, Lola."

I have never been lonelier walking back home.


	17. Chapter 17

Well, it certainly has been a while since I last updated this story. Apologies to everyone (if anyone…) who has been following. No excuses.

Here we go again!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>No matter how much good you think you've done, keeping a good attitude isn't easy.<p>

I tried my best to be happy for the next couple days. I had my best friend back and my obligation to the newsies was – in all senses – terminated. What could be better, right? Back to my old life of boredom and short breath.

Except I wasn't foolish enough to think I would really be going back to normal. My life wasn't going to immediately go back to being the same, no matter how hard I wished for it. I went to work, Lola walked me home afterwards, my father made dinner… Yeah, on the surface everything was the same, but it was all so empty. And the emptiness meant I had more time than ever to just…think. Gah.

Going to work was a nice distraction from all that _thinking_, despite the fact that Caroline Woods began paying me an abnormal amount of attention. Not the type of negative attention she always delighted in giving me, the village klutz, but rather the curious-questions-worried-about-you type. Sometimes I'd catch her gazing at me (that's right, _gazing_, not glaring) like she just couldn't figure me out. Every time I saw her do it I looked away real quick, but the sinking feeling stayed with me. As strange as it may sound, I was actually _hoping_ she would get mad at me for some inconsideration, as it would give me something else to worry about.

It was now Wednesday and I promised Lola I'd go right to her house after work. I left Caroline Woods and her lingering gaze as I walked out the door and sprinted to Lola's building, anxious to get away from those delicately made-up prying eyes.

Lola answered the door. We walked through the living room and I saw Carlos lying across the couch, arms and legs askew.

"Hi Carlos," I said, although as soon as the words left my mouth I wished I hadn't.

He barely turned his head to give me his look of despondence. Ouch. Thankfully, Lola hurried me up the stairs.

"He's just in a bad mood, you know. He told Mother some lie about getting in a fight with some street kids and ever since she hasn't let him out of the house."

"Oh," I said dully, but I didn't really understand. Carlos was actually listening to his mother? That was news to me. Sure, he always avoided the worst case scenarios to spare himself the grief-stricken woe she would heap on him, but as long as I had known him he never followed the house rules. Could it be because he was just as depressed as I was, knowing the newsies and their noble cause had ultimately failed? That made me feel worse. Even Carlos, the eternal optimist and lifelong go-getter had given up on the strike.

Lola sat on her bed and patted the spot next to her, so I sat.

"You know, Izzie, ever since we've been friends again you've been acting very strange," she said.

"Really?" I said, picking at my fingernails. Can you believe that I wasn't particularly interested in the following conversation? Threw you for a loop, I'm sure.

"Well, yes… You walk around now. Well, I mean you _walk_ now, instead of rushing. Like you don't care if you get there late or not. Before you used to care. Before you ran everywhere you went."

I didn't know what to say, so I said something that meant nothing.

"Oh, I don't know. I've just been a little distracted lately, that's all."

Lola peered eerily into my eyes.

"What?" I asked, perhaps a bit too forcefully.

"It's those newsies, isn't it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on Lola. I told you I wouldn't –"

"No, Izzie. I mean, you miss them, don't you?"

I didn't say anything. I looked at her for a brief moment, and then went back to picking my nails.

She stopped looking at me then and started fiddling with her fingers. Tearing my eyes away from the blood and hangnails, I looked at her but didn't say anything.

Lola looked out the window for a moment and then said the unthinkable: "Look, Izzie, I'm really sorry."

"Sorry about what?" I said, letting my hands fall limply into my lap.

"Oh," she said, standing up and walking to the window. "I'm sorry about the whole thing. I shouldn't have asked you to give up the strike. You loved it – don't try to tell me you didn't, because I _know_ you did. I just – Oh, I don't know."

This was a moment I had not been expecting… and I wanted to savor it. An apology for the all-mighty Lola? That hadn't happened… ever. No, I wasn't going to let her get out of this easily. So I waited until she took it up again.

"It's just that you changed once you started helping them. You weren't the same old Izzie as before… you were confident and adventurous and smart and you were helping people. I suppose you've always been those things but those boys brought that out of you, you know?"

I didn't know. She must have realized from the perplexed look on my face.

"You changed, Izzie, and… well now that I've seen you I realize that it's not bad. I guess I was just… gah, I was just jealous. I mean, it's always been me and you, Lola and Izzie, ever since I can remember. I order you around and you do whatever I ask. I was rude and I was wrong, and I always knew it, but I couldn't help but want it to always be that way."

Now she was really scaring me. I was hoping for an apology and here she was, going on a philosophical rant about our relationship. Dumbstruck, is what I was.

She threw her hands up. "Oh, and it wasn't just you. I couldn't believe that Carlos went off with you after what that boy did to him. You should have seen him, Izzie. His eyes black and his lip busted… It was a mess and I swore I would never forgive the boy that did that. I didn't care who he was or where he was from. He'd hurt my brother for something as silly as a newspaper."

I stopped looking at Lola and started reflecting on what she had said. Was she right? Did I really change around the newsies? Was this my moment to shine and I was letting it pass me by because of some stupid old man living in his golden tower of newspapers? I'd unwillingly let my chance go by to make a change in Cuba… was I doing the same thing here in New York?

"Is that why you hate the newsies?" I said.

She shuffled around a bit and looked everywhere but at me. "Well, what that boy did to Carlos was pretty bad."

"But that's not all, is it?"

She stuck her nail in her mouth and began biting.

"What is it, Lola?"

She threw her arms out in frustration. "It was Marisol, all right?"

Yes, I was certainly going through every emotion I had ever felt, right here with Lola. Baffled was now taking its turn.

"What in the world does Marisol have to do with the newsies?"

She sat down on the bed next to me again. "You remember that day, Izzie. You were the only friend I had and you remember the day they came to tell us." She looked at me in the eyes. "We didn't know, and one of _them_ showed up to tell us –"

"What?" Rude, yes, but entirely necessary.

She frowned. "It was one of them that told us."

"How would a newsie know about Marisol?" I don't think I'd ever asked so many questions in my life.

She huffed a bit before answering. "I don't know, I guess they were friends. But he was one of _them_. And I don't know, every time I see one I just remember… and to think it was one of them that was the last person to see my sister… it makes me want to throw something."

She might as well have thrown something then from how angry she was. Under her usually delicate skin I could see her blue veins emerging, like earthworms arising from a long winter.

So I sat there for a minute, thinking about what she had told me. Then I said the best thing I could think of saying in that moment, "Wait, so do you really believe all that stuff about me you just said?"

And she smiled.

"Yes, Izzie. You're really special. They would be crazy not to see that."

Just that smile from Lola was enough for me. For as long as I could remember, I had never been recognized for something great. It felt good, and I didn't want it to end. So I took a moment to revel in my newfound glory.

And then it hit me in the face like one of those low-hanging signs I always cursed on my deliveries. The strike was over, done, terminado. The newsies had lost hope, and I had left them in their misery.

"Well," I said, depressed once again. "That's all very nice, but it's all over now."

Lola looked confused. "What? What happened?"

"I already told you, Lola! The bulls came and rounded them all up. The newsies that aren't in jail are miserable because none of the newspapers covered the strike. Besides, I left them. I left them high and dry. Why would they ever want me to help them again?"

Lola put her hand to her mouth for a moment, and then smiled. "Well, then we'll just have to help them find a way to get the word out. They'll want you back, Izzie. After all, they got you involved in this for a reason. You've got the stuff in here (she pointed at my chest, so I assumed she meant my heart) to make the difference."

At first, I shook my head at her sudden optimism. Enthusiasm was great and all, but it wasn't going to tell the whole of New York how the newsies had been cheated. I sat on the bed with my head in my hands.

Oh, but then! I jumped up in a state of brilliancy.

"I've got it, Lola! I know exactly what we could do to bring down that bearded tyrant down once and for all!" I yelled, disregarding the paper thin walls of the apartment.

But then I stopped. Lola had said loads of nice things about me, but that still left the question of the newsies. We were best friends again and for real this time, but would she be willing to help the newsies?

"Lola," I said, getting closer to her. "I need your help."

She looked at me for a moment and I wasn't sure what she would say. I was still so shaken up over everything that had happened that I just didn't know if up was down and down was up or if Lola would say yes or if Lola would say no.

"I'll help you, Izzie," she said quietly, a shadow of a smile on her face. "As long as you have a plan."

"All right," I said, tying my hair up. "We need to go get the newsies, right away. This is going to be big."

I ran down the stairs with Lola right behind me, the both of us happily ignoring Mrs. Martinez's yells from her bedroom.

"Carlos!" I yelped as we entered the living room. "Come on, we've got a plan."

I never did ask Carlos why exactly he awoke from his stupor on the couch to follow us, but he did. My thoughts? He was probably just sick of staring at the ceiling.

Who cares how it gets done, as long as it gets done, right?


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

* * *

><p>So there we were, the magnificent three: Lola, Carlos and I running through the streets of Manhattan liked escaped convicts. I guess we were convicts on the run, really – running from our own limitations toward redemption. (Pretty good for a lowly delivery girl, right?)<p>

My first thought was to head for the Lodging House, but considering the kind of luck I had had there the last time, we decided the first stop should be Tibby's.

Isn't it wonderful how intuition works? We ran through the glass door and there was Jack, David, Sarah and Les all sitting a booth looking particularly ornery. Yes, it was going to be a good day.

"Jack!" I said from the doorway. "You're back!"

He didn't shoot back his usual smirk, so I knew this was going to be serious. When we walked over, David gave me a confused look but he didn't say anything. I tried to push the thought out of my head that he was possibly cursing me under his breath.

As surprised as I was so see Jack alive and relatively well, I stuck to my guns and said what I had wanted to say. "You don't look half bad." I couldn't help but get a little flattery in before I launched into my crazy escapade. Jack didn't smile, but I noticed he was holding a newspaper in his hands, like he had been reading it.

"Look, I know we've all been through a lot the past few days." I bit my lip and continued. "All right, some more than others. But we've got an idea, and it's going to work. It's going to bring that crab Pulitzer down once and for all."

There was something slightly off about Jack's appearance, and I quickly realized what it was – his clothes were clearly newly pressed. Curious, of course, but I decided not to press the issue or question the oddities of fate. Lola, Carlos and I sat down where we could and I started to explain.

"Okay, so I was thinking, how can we get the word out about the strike? Well, we tried the rally, but that didn't work because… well you already know why."

The silence was weighing heavier than ever.

"Right. So I thought, what if we make our own headline and print it? We could write about the newsies strike and the war in Cuba… everything we've been telling people to their faces we could make them read, all across the city."

Sarah and Les both threw me huge smiles from across the tale.

"Jack," she said, turning, "that's a great idea!" Sarah said. "After all those things Denton published… Can you imagine?"

I didn't know who Denton was and what Sarah was talking about, but I kept my mouth shut. Jack never took his eyes off of me, which made me quite nervous, really. I could clearly see David's doubt through that weak half-smile of his. And especially when he said, "It could work, but none of us knows how to write an article."

All of us looked down at the table at that point, thinking desperately of which of any of our acquaintances might have the precious knowledge we would desperately need. An article only moves people if it is written well, and the odds were not looking to be in our favor, at least as far as I could see.

"I don't know anyone," Carlos said finally. "Not a one."

"Me either," Lola said.

I heard Jack chuckle and looked up across the table at him. After so much frowning, a smile looked strange on him.

"I know a guy," he said and fluffed up the newspaper. "Look, the answer's right here in front of us."

David smiled at that, and I was as confused as ever. Jack didn't bother to explain his plan to us before he got up and motioned for us to follow him. We half-ran to a middle-class neighborhood in Manhattan, an area I had only been once on a delivery long ago. Baffled as to how a newsie would know someone who lived in the area, I asked Jack where we were headed.

"To Denton's," he said simply.

"Who's Denton?" I asked.

"You'll see," Jack replied with a smirk.

Realizing I wasn't going to get the answer I wanted, I slowed down to ask David.

"He's a friend of ours," he said. "Works for the New York Sun. But we've got to get to him quick because he's about to leave."

"Leave where?" David didn't answer. "Are you sure you can trust him?" I asked.

David laughed before answering. "If we can't trust Denton, we can't trust anyone. He's been with us since the beginning."

I shrugged and kept on running with the rest of the group. I glanced back at Lola to make sure she was still with us and I saw a determined smile on her face of the likes I had never seen before. I took it as a good sign and just kept right on running.

We finally got to the building where this "Denton" lived and rushed up the stairs. Jack knocked on the door and a middle-aged man with beautiful hair answered.

"Did you mean what you wrote here?" Jack asked without a moment's pause. I hoped this Denton wasn't as surprised as I was at Jack's outburst. "'Bout all these sweatshop kids listenin' to me?"

He smiled and said, "I don't write anything I don't mean."

I liked him.

"Well, come on in," he offered. "I was just packing a few things."

Everyone walked in right away, except me. He looked at me funny and I felt rude, so I offered him my hand.

"Izzie Romero," I said as we shook. "Nice to meet you."

"Is that a Cuban accent I hear?" he asked.

I nodded. "Lola and Carlos are from Cuba too." Denton turned around to smile at them.

"I spent quite some time in Cuba last year," he said.

"Jack and Davey told me all about it," I said. "That's where they got the bright idea to convince me to join their strike." There was something about his smile that made me want to talk.

Denton smiled yet again. "So I've heard. It was a pretty smart idea, I think."

I nodded and we went inside. Once everyone was situated, Denton continued. He explained how many people in the city made a lot of money using child labor and the newsie strike threatened to destroy their success. He said he knew that a lot of people were terrified of the strike and its potential to spread.

"Why can't we spread the strike?" Jack asked Denton. "Have another big rally; get the word out to all the sweatshop kids, why not?"

At fist I was confused by Jack's question. Hadn't we already figured this all out? We were going to write the article, and then hand it out. Maybe he was doubting my plan. Maybe I had been foolishly led on all along.

Ah, but my moment of relief came when I realized it was all a ploy. Right on cue, David said, "What are we gonna do, put an ad in the newspaper?"

"No, we'll do better than that. We'll make our own paper. And we'll show everyone that Pulitzer is a scum, just like our pal Izzie here said," Jack said.

Ah, I could see where this was going.

"We'll tell them they gotta join us, that we won't let Pulitzer be a hypocrite," Jack continued. "Isn't that a good idea?" he directed towards Denton.

"Yeah it is," David said. "But what do we know about printing a newspaper?"

We all turned and stared at Denton, every single one of us.

"All right," he said, laughing under his breath. "Where do we start?"

"We gotta start fast. We're gonna need the newsies and you three to circulate," Jack said, looking at Lola, Carlos and me.

"There's something else we need," Denton said. "We need a printing press."

"It just so happens, I know a guy wit a printin' press," Jack said.

"Who?" Davey asked.

"Old man Pulitzer himself," Jack replied.

I was impressed and assumed this newest advancement had come in the aftermath of Jack's arrest, because I certainly hadn't heard about it before. Our newspaper was going to be the best in the history of all newspapers, and we were going to print it on Joseph Pulitzer's own printing press.

"And he isn't going to find out someone's using his press?" Carlos asked, looking shakily at everyone one of us.

"Nah," Jack replied, still jubilant. "It ain't been used it years."

"Perfect," Denton said. "You tell me what to write and I'll do it."

"We gotta write about the price hike, of course," David said, pacing. "And we've gotta write about Pulitzer and the Cubans, too."

"What about," Lola said and stopped when everyone turned to look at her. "Well, what about writing about Pulitzer? I've been asking around and I heard that he's an immigrant himself, grew up really poor. And here he is, trying to make the newsies ever poorer. It looks bad, like he's betraying his own kind, you know?"

I could have kissed her. We all looked at her, especially her brother, with a newfound respect.

"That's a brilliant idea," Denton said, patting her on the back. "We've got to get as much information as we can about Pulitzer's past. We'll combine that with his abuse of the newsies and no one will be able to deny the injustice."

I pushed Lola's shoulder and gave her an approving smile. "Since when are you so clever?" I said.

She shrugged and smiled.

It sure was good to have my friend back.


	19. Chapter 19

Thank you, mysterygirl, for your feedback! Pulitzer is actually one of the more interesting characters in the movie, and I'm glad someone else appreciates his history as much as I do.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>The basement was awful. Cobwebs in your hair, dust up your nose, dirt in places you can't imagine awful. Jack had said he'd been sleeping in a hole, but I didn't know that he meant it <em>literally<em>.

Sarah apparently didn't either, because she asked, "You've been living _here?_"

I was glad I wasn't the only one thinking it.

The eight of us walked as carefully as we could down the stairs, hoping no one would wake up and foil our well thought-out plan. Jack led us over to the press; old, dusty and perfectly functional.

Denton got right to work and with enthusiasm. The rest of us started planning what exactly we would include in the flyer. Like Lola had suggested, we wanted to include a bit about Pulitzer and his past, but we knew we'd need real propaganda to get people's attention.

Lola tried to recall everything she'd heard about Pulitzer as best she could. We got a pretty good start: a poor Hungarian immigrant that went from riches to rags in a matter of years. He came to the United States hoping to join the army (_that_ surprised me) and spent most of his early years dirt poor. It wasn't until he joined the high and mighty that he got some real money, and it all went down from there.

We kept the information about Pulitzer to a minimum – just enough to get the message across. He formed only a little block on the page – as much space as he had relegated to the newsies in New York. The main article was a call to arms of all the poor working kids of New York. Everyone in the city knew how horrible the working conditions were for ordinary adults, and it was just the same for children, if not worse.

It was an inspiring little article; brief and right to the point. A call to action here, some revealed hypocrisy there – you really couldn't ask for anything better. Denton led the arrangement of letters on the press so that it would come out perfectly. I had to admit; although I never had an interest in any kind of newspaper career, paper printing was enthralling. Inks, letters, papers: it all came together to create one moving piece of work.

Hands were flying, feet were flying, ideas were flying every which way and not once did we stop during that entire night for even the slightest break. I think we all knew the importance of speed – there was only a short period of time between when people are interested in an issue and when they lose that interest, and we weren't about to lose them now.

When the flyers were printed, we all helped stack and tie them together. Can I add a personal note here? (I will anyway). I have never in my life seen Carlos and Lola get along as well as they did in that moment. They were laughing and talking and planning and doing all the things I think kids wish they could always do with their brothers and sisters. Now, we all know that I have no personal experience with something like a brotherly/sisterly relationship, but I think they were really happy. They were working together like a team – like a _family_ team.

Okay, I'm done being sappy for now. Moving on. I was continually impressed with the speed and connections of those newsies. As soon as we had finished tying the first packet of flyers, newsies showed up at the basement window to pick them up and distribute.

Jack just laughed when he saw how surprised I was. Ah, the egos of young men.

"All right," Jack said as he worked. "I told the guys to get this banner out to every kid they see. Once we're done printin' these we'll go out and distribute 'em ourselves. If ya don't see anybody, go lookin' for 'em, all right?"

Everyone nodded enthusiastically, but I pulled Jack aside.

"Look, Jack, I gotta go. I've been playing like I was sick and haven't been into work lately. Ms. Woods will kill me if I don't show up today."

Lola and Carlos sniggered amongst themselves in a corner.

"All right Cuba, but take these. Hand 'em out on yer way there," Jack said.

"I'll take you there, Izzie," David said, appearing at Jack's side and picking up a stack of banners. Before I had a chance to protest, he insisted, "Come on, let's go."

We left everyone behind and walked through the early morning streets of Manhattan. We passed the Distribution Center, where David explained the newsies purchased their papers every morning.

"I've never been to this side of town before," I said.

"I hadn't either until I became a newsie," David said. "It looks a little rough at first, but it really isn't all that bad when you get used to it."

I shrugged. "Why did you become a newsie anyway, Davey?" I asked. "I mean, you probably went to school, right?"

David bit his lip before he answered. "Yeah, I was in school before, but my father was injured and lost his job."

"Ah. That's too bad." Can you tell I'm not good with sentimental moments?

"Yeah," he said.

We walked slowly, despite my rush to get to the millinery. Here and there we passed a kid or two and passed out the flyers to them as well as the sympathetic-looking adults we saw on the streets.

As we walked, I started thinking.

"You know, Davey… Thanks."

He looked at me and I could see he was half smiling, half raising his eyebrows. "What for?"

"I mean, thanks for letting all of us do this with you and Jack and the newsies. It's nice to do something important… to belong to something, you know?"

He smiled and said, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

We arrived at the millinery just before opening and I gave David the strongest hug I had ever given in my life.

"I'll see everyone this afternoon, all right?"

"See ya later, Izzie," David said, waving as he walked away.

I hurriedly opened the millinery door only to be greeted by none other than Ms. Caroline Woods.

"Who was that boy?" she asked, her makeup only slightly less boisterous than it had been the last time I had seen her.

I stuttered. "Uh… what boy?" Who was I kidding? She wasn't blind (unfortunately, I might have gotten away with a lot more if she had been).

"That boy who walked you here."

"Oh, him? He's just a friend."

"He's a newsie, isn't he?"

How in the world would she know that?"

"Well, I don't…"

"Come here, Isabel," she said to me, motioning to her office.

Oh, the dreaded office. I had been called there exactly three times before, and all for serious mistakes I had made. The smaller mistakes usually warranted a chastising in front of customers and coworkers, but she saved the really big punishments for the office.

And there I was, once again. I could have sworn I could feel the imprint my butt had made in the chair last time I had been forced in there.

"Sit down, Isabel."

So I sat. Did I have a choice?

"You've been quite distracted lately," she said.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Woods –"

"I've heard some rumors from a few of my faithful customers that there is a certain group of Cuban youths that has been helping the newsies in their strike. Where was it you said you were from, Isabel?"

"Cuba." Guilty.

"Hmmm." She nodded her head like she knew all along.

"Just as I suspected. You wouldn't happen to be a part of that group, would you now, Isabel?"

I was convinced at that moment that I was about to lose my job. But, good old Izzie, no matter how much pressure and how much she needed that job, she couldn't keep her big mouth shut.

"Well –"

"Listen, Isabel. I don't need distracted employees muddling up my shop. Now, I want all of this done with, do you understand me?"

I was stuttering (as usual) and trying to convince her of my innocence.

"But Ms. Woods, I –"

"I want to know exactly what you and those newsies are planning." I tried to convince here that there was nothing going on but she wouldn't have it.

"You and that boy must have been doing something. What was it, Isabel?"

I gave up then. I was already going to lose my job, so I figured I might as well tell her. Besides, what was the worst she could do? Go to Pulitzer? (She might.)

"We're making a banner, Ms. Woods."

"A banner? What kind of banner?" she asked, tapping her forefinger on her arm.

"About the strike, Ms. Woods. About the strike and about Pulitzer."

Caroline Woods nodded her head as if she knew exactly what I was talking about. I couldn't believe it, but I didn't say anything.

"All right, Isabel. I want this issue done and over with. I want you to leave this millinery and don't come back until this strike is over."

Wait, what? Leave the millinery? But she said I could come back… Could it be? She was letting me keep my job?

"Take this," she said as she handed me a wad of bills. I had never seen so much money in my life.

"I don't care what you do with it, but I would suggest that you go rent that horse and cart you always pass by on the way to work."

I was so surprised that I almost didn't hear what she had said. I sat staring at the money in my hands, my mind blown blank.

"Isabel!" she barked to get my attention. "Go."

I nodded and stood up a little too quickly, because I knocked my chair over.

"Oh, forget it," Caroline Woods said at my sad attempt to pick it back up.

I nodded like a fool once again and made right for the door.

"Oh, and Isabel?" she called after me.

I looked back.

"Make sure you show them it's not so bad being an outsider after all."

I smiled. That was certainly not the punishment I was expecting.


	20. Chapter 20

Alrighty then. This chapter's a bit shorter than the others. It's a sort of lead-in, if you will. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>As soon as I had left the millinery I ran straight for the carriage Caroline Woods had mentioned.<p>

How did she know? Had she been thinking about it all along? What would possess her to give me so much money and let me walk out of the shop without asking how I would pay her back? That woman was an incredible enigma to me.

And her parting words. They made everything come together, but I was enormously surprised that she would say something so personal out loud, especially to me. I had always been the loser of the bunch and Caroline Woods had made no secret of it. But was it possible that she actually felt a kinship with me? A kind of secret friendship with a fellow outsider? A foreign delivery girl and a woman who broke society's rules?

No time, I said to myself. No time to think of silly things.

I got to the carriage and looked around for the owner. I had never rented a carriage before, so how would this work? I saw a door nearby and as I was so hyped up from the action of the day, I tapped on it loudly, hoping someone would be there that might help me.

Luck had swung my way (surprising, right?) and the owner of the house was also the owner of the carriage. I quickly explained my request, shoved a sufficient amount of money in his hand for the day and rode off with the horse and carriage. I think he might have yelled a bit after me, but I was already a long way away.

I have to admit, me sitting astride a valiant horse on my way to save the day was quite a sight. Isabel Romero, I thought to myself, hero extraordinaire. I daydreamed about my brave feats for a bit, but I was rocked out of my fantasy by the thought of my father. I hadn't gone home the night before and he would be inevitably very worried. I decided to deliver the horse to the newsies and run back to tell him I was fine.

I had made particular attention to remember the exact route Davey had taken me that morning, so I simply followed my way back. I showed up at the building in all my glory, wanting to shout but knowing it would arouse suspicion. I hopped off the horse and leaned down towards the small windows out of which I had seen Jack pass the banners.

"Wait until you see the surprise I have for you," I said to a surprised Jack who was ready to hand me some papes. He saw the horse's feet from the window and half climbed out to see what all my bragging was about.

"What's this?" he asked.

"A present, compliments of Ms. Caroline Woods," I replied.

Everyone else pulled themselves out of the window to observe my feat.

"Nice job, Izzie," Carlos said with a disbelieving nod of his head. "Who'd have ever thought, huh?"

I wanted to bask in my accomplishment but I knew we had work to do. I helped Jack and the others load the banners into the carriage, nearly tripping over myself and the surprising weight of mere pieces of paper. Denton and Jack were the last to leave the building as we all rode on the carriage (me guiding the horse, of course) throughout the city, tossing the banners every which way.

We went to factories, textile mills, poor neighborhoods; anywhere we hoped there would be sympathetic hearts for our cause. We made a trip into the Cuban barrios Carlos had so hoped he could recruit. They looked at Carlos suspiciously (once again) but willingly accepted the banners and from what I could tell from their faces as we rode away, they were at least mildly interested.

I saw newsies handing out the banners everywhere we went. I saw women, men, children, youths, everyone holding a banner, and most were reading them (although I did see someone pick up their dog's 'business' with one. I wanted to slap him, but I didn't.) People from all economic walks of life were reading _our_ story, and I was proud. More proud than I had ever been.

We ran out of the banners in early afternoon. I sent everyone to Tibby's with the money left over from Caroline Woods and told them to buy lunch for anyone that wanted it.

I ran back to my house to write my father a note for him to see once he was finished with work. I bounded up the building stairs and opened the door. I didn't hear anyone, so I walked into my room to look for a pen and paper.

My father. My father was lying asleep on my bed, like he had been waiting there all night. I felt a huge pang of guilt as I slowly shook him awake.

"Papá? What are you doing?"

It took him a minute to sit up while he rubbed his eyes. "Cariño, you're here. I was worried when you didn't come home last night," he said.

"I'm sorry, papá, there was something I had to do." Then to get the pressure off me for a moment I said, "But why aren't you at work?"

"Oh, they'll be fine without me for one day."

That just about killed me. He was so worried about me (irresponsible. little me) that he skipped a precious day of work to make sure I was all right.

He leaned over the side of the bed and wrapped me in a hug that I thought would suck the breath out of me. "You're all right though, Isabel. That's what matters."

I couldn't stop a solitary tear from running down my cheek. "I'm really sorry, papá."

He looked confused. "Why are you crying, cariño?" he asked.

I brushed the tear off as fast as I could. He was quick. "I haven't been around much," I said as I sat down next to him on my bed.

He stroked my hair and smiled. "No, Isabel querida. I realized last night when I was sitting here that I'm the one that hasn't been around much."

"What do you mean, papá? You're always here when you come home from work. I mean I - "

"No, no, that's not what I mean. What I mean is, you're nearly 18 now and I don't _know_ you." He got up and began pacing around the room. "It's just that ever since your mother died… well, I've been so worried about taking care of you that I never really talked to you. You've been so busy lately and I didn't even know what you were busy doing. I should know, I'm your father."

"I wanted to tell you, papá, but –"

"I should have asked, cariño, that's the point. Father's are supposed to ask. Kids never tell."

I bit my cheek.

"I just want to say that I'm sorry. And," he said hesitantly. "I'd like to get to know you better. If it's alright with you."

I was terrified, and yet deeply moved. "Of course, papá." But then I remembered. "But not today. I'm busy, you see, and –"

He put his hand on my cheek. "Tell me all about it tonight, all right?" he said.

I nodded.

"Now get going. You must be doing something very important to keep you from sleeping."

I smiled at him. On a whim, I ran over and kissed him on the cheek. Just before I opened the door, I heard my father say, "And be _careful_, Isabel! I don't want to hear about any injuries later."

I made a mental note and ran back to Tibby's where I knew the newsies were waiting.

The entire restaurant was packed with people. I was surprised that Caroline Woods's money had gone so far, but so glad that it had.

"Hey, Cuba!" Jack called from across the restaurant. "Get over here. We gotta use some of this money on you, ya know."

Please believe me when I swear to you that that roast beef sandwich was the best I had ever had in my life.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>I was a bird. No, not in the sense that I was flying above my fears, above the clouds, above anything that could hurt me into a sky of self-confidence and fulfillment.<p>

No – I was a bird, defecating merrily above everything happening below me. Yes, I was enjoying myself thoroughly, without, for the first time my life, worrying about the consequences. _That_ is the joy of being a bird.

Where were we? Finishing lunch, yes, I remember. So we ate and were merry.

There is something I should tell you, however. In the banner, we had all decided to call for a march on Joseph Pulitzer's office to show him what was what. Jack thought it would be best to set the place for the Horace Greeley statue and the time: 3 o'clock.

It was around 2:57 in the afternoon and we were all standing around, wondering if what we had hoped so long for, what we had worked so hard for, would ever happen.

Can I make an observation here? I looked around and saw some of my comrades – Race, Mush, Blink – looking doubtful. Can you imagine my surprise? Ever since I had known those kids, they had had smiles on their faces, ready to spit in the face of authority. And who was it at the moment with the smile on her face?

You bet. Good old Isabel Romero. Professional pessimist.

So I felt pretty good. And when I feel pretty good, I'm just a ball of sunshine towards everyone else. Jack looked down, so I went over to him.

"It's gonna happen, Jack," I said to him. "Trust me. I've got a feeling about this."

"Yeah?" he said with a scoff.

I thought about it for a minute. "I'm not wrong this time."

He didn't look at me so I grabbed his shoulder. "I promise."

That made him smile a bit.

We both turned in that moment to look down the street. Well, everyone turned to look because the ground was rumbling underneath our feet and the buildings were echoing with shouts. Our whoops and hollers soon joined everyone else's and we were all happily screaming together. Crowds of people came from all directions – I even saw that Spot Conlon once – and everyone gathered in the square, ready to take on that bearded man in his tower.

I laughed when I saw Carlos's friends marching towards us. All the kids and families and friends and neighbors that had come from Cuba to escape what Joseph Pulitzer himself knew was a brutal war were marching for the rights of the newsies. In fact, most of the people I saw marching I didn't even recognize. If I had to guess, I'd say that the ones we told, went and told their brothers, and they went and told their friends, until almost every Cuban in the city was marching with us.

Would you believe it? I hadn't ever seen such a thing. In my dreams I imagined the revolution in Cuba to be similar, but let me tell you, it's a completely different thing to live through it. It's something that goes so far deep into your soul, you feel like it might come out the other side. Something you know that despite the years, despite the frailty of old age, you will never forget that moment. Never, ever, never. It was glorious if ever there was such a thing.

Each man, woman and child had a banner in their hands and were chanting along, demanding lower paper prices for the newsies. We were all there for a common justice – no one outside of the newsies, including myself, would really directly benefit from the strike. But you know what? I think we all knew what it really meant. We were fighting for decency, fighting for the right to fight, and fighting for the future of everyone there. If we could change things for the newsies, then maybe we could change anything that came our way.

Okay, enough of the philosophical mumbo-jumbo. For me, what came next was the most important thing to happen throughout this entire journey.

So there I was, standing with the newsies in shock and awe, watching the crowds of sympathizers join our ranks, when a turquoise feather caught my eye. An odd thing for me to notice, perhaps, except that I couldn't imagine why _anyone_ in that crowd would be wearing a turquoise feather. I assumed I had simply made a mistake and was seeing things that weren't there (a particular habit of mine), but when I looked again there it was.

There it was, and alongside it was some purple velvet. Then some red beading, and some yellow tulle. I stopped looking at what I was seeing and started looking at what it _was._ It was (they were) women. Women with hats, courtesy of Caroline Woods. Now, I of course would be able to recognize a Caroline Woods hat among a world of impostors, but I also knew her influence beyond my tiny world. Caroline Woods and her colors were recognized throughout the entire city, in case you didn't know.

But why were they there? I tried to get a better look at them to see if they were perhaps lost and how I could get them back to the store, but I noticed that they too had banners in their hands. Banners gripped tightly in their gloved hands, and that they were chanting along with the crowd.

Oh, I was convinced there was some mistake. Sure, Caroline Woods had seemingly implicitly given her support, but this? This was too much. She couldn't possibly have sent those women to join the march, could she?

I left the newsies and went over to the strange group. Sure enough, Mrs. Parker was among them, along with nearly all of Caroline Woods's regular customers. They saw me and waved me over.

"Dear Isabel, isn't this marvelous?" one of them said.

I didn't get a chance to respond, because another commented, "Caroline was right, this is wonderful. It is not everyday a woman gets to see something like this. Oh, how Howard would kill me if he knew I was here!"

I couldn't take it any longer. I went up to Mrs. Parker and asked, "Mrs. Parker, what exactly are you all doing here?"

She looked at me oddly (she never did like me) and said, "Caroline mentioned there would be a strike today. She said some children were fighting for their rights and that we all ought to join, seeing as they are very unfortunate, after all." (Of course, she had to get her last dig in.)

I was blown away. Caroline Woods _convinced_ them to join?

"Is she here?" I asked.

"No, she said she had business to attend to. A shame, really. I would have much preferred her company," Mrs. Parker said bitterly.

I waved my goodbyes to the women and went to look for the newsies once more.

I looked for Lola out of the crowd and saw her at the front of the line with the newsies and Carlos, right in front of Pulitzer's office, just like Jack had said.

Jack, however, was nowhere to be found. Neither was David. When I finally reached Lola she told me what had happened.

"Pulitzer wanted to talk to them," she said, nodding towards the top of the building. "Who knows what's going on up there."

I looked up, hoping I might be able to see them through the window. I saw nothing, but a moment later both Jack and Pulitzer were on the balcony. Neither of them looked particularly happy, so I assumed things were not going well. The crowd's volume soared to deafening heights, however, when it saw its grand leader.

They went back inside, though, and the questions came again.

"Do you think he'll give in?" I heard Race ask next to me.

"Nah," Skittery said. "He's a rich old hoity-toity man; he can do whatever he wants."

"He'll do it," I said. They both looked at me.

"I know he will," I continued. "He's got no choice now. He may be a rich old man, but he's not crazy. He's gotta know its better to give in than to lose everything."

"Ya know, kid," Race said, patting me on the shoulder. "I hope you're right. You're a lot smarter than I gave ya credit for."

Skittery gave me an approving smile too, but I didn't really care. I just wanted to know what was going on in that sky-high office.

"Izzie," Lola said, pulling at me arm. "But what if he doesn't? What if he just throws them out?"

I smiled at my best friend. "So he throws them out, so what? We're all here, that's what matters. No one is blind to this anymore. It's only a matter of time before he has to give in. If not today, then tomorrow. I just know he'll do it, Lola, you watch."

We all sat waiting impatiently and ten minutes later the huge doors opened. David came out first, then Jack. Everyone crowded around him, hoping to get a glimpse of what happened, but he didn't say anything to anyone.

He bent down and whispered something into Les's ear, stood up with the kid on his shoulders and yelled, "We beat 'em!"

Can I describe the intense jubilation we all felt to you in that moment? Probably not, so I hope you have a good imagination. The chanting changed to yelling, the yelling changed to crying, the crying changed to… anything else you could possibly imagine.

I hugged Lola, I hugged Carlos. I ran over and hugged David. Then I finally got a hold of Jack.

"You did it," I said to him.

"We did it," he said. "All of us."

I gave him a skeptical look. "Nah, it was mostly you."

He tried to object, but I interrupted. "Just take the compliment, Jack. I don't give them out every day."

A moment later he was whisked away by his group of adoring followers. I watched him and saw him shake hands with the Governor of New York and get right into his carriage. Can you believe that? Who would have thought, right?

We all chatted amongst each other for a while, but when it got to be around 5 o'clock Lola and I decided to head home. We left Carlos with his friends, said goodbye to the newsies and waved to Caroline Woods's customers and started the walk home.

"That was pretty great, no?" Lola asked.

I laughed. "See? I told you those kids were smart. And you didn't want to believe me."

Lola shrugged. "I know I was rude, all right? I don't know it's just… sometimes I wish I wasn't so much like them, you know?"

She must have seen me give her the evil eye because she tried to recover. "No, that's now what I mean. It's just before I saw them and I knew I was just like them… Poor and out of luck. Every time I saw them it reminded me of myself. I didn't want to keep being like them, you know?"

I didn't say anything.

"That doesn't make any sense, does it?" she asked.

"It makes perfect sense," I said. "I think everyone feels that way sometimes. There is always going to be something we want to change. But look, we just did."

She shoved me a little and I almost ran into a businessman walking next to me. I shot her a death glare and pushed her right back, sending her off the curb and into the street.

We fought that way until we reach my house.

"How's your father doing, by the way?" Lola asked.

I smiled at my own little secret. "He's doing great. Just great," I said.

Lola looked at me funny. "You've never talked about him like that before," she said.

I shrugged. "Well, it's the start of new beginnings, right? I might as well re-do everything in my life."

"Whatever you say," she said, rolling her eyes. "See you tomorrow, Izzie."

"Hasta luego," I said to her as she left.

I walked up the stairs and saw my father at the dining room table.

"Por fin," he said as I walked in the room. "I was worried dinner was going to get cold."

I put all my stuff in my room and went out to join him.

"So," he said. "What did you do today?"

My initial knee-jerk reaction was hesitation to tell him the truth. I wanted to, but I was worried. What if after all these years he won't like the real me? What if he was wrong about getting to know me?

But if there was one thing I had learned from the newsies, it was that if you don't take chance, you never know what will happen.

So I spent the whole night telling him.

Do you know what he did when I finished?

He hugged me and said, "I'm so proud of you, cariño."

That made everything – the bruises, cuts, broken friendships, wounded feelings – all worthwhile.


	22. Chapter 22

And we're done! It's been a great ride (for me, at least…) and I want to thank anyone and everyone who has ever read even a little of this story. See you on the other side!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

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><p>I was nervous to go to work the next day. I spent the whole morning thinking of what I would say to Caroline Woods – if I would acknowledge her help, if I would promise my lifetime service to her, if I would compliment her graciousness – but I still didn't know what to do by the time I arrived at the millinery.<p>

Luckily for me, I didn't have to do much thinking because I was quickly rushed into the store to begin packing some hats away for special orders. I was about two hours into the packing when one of the assistants called to me.

"Isabel!" she shouted from across the room. "Ms. Woods wants you to buy a newspaper for her."

"Now?"

"Now!"

Grumbling, I left my task and went to the front door. I stood stock still, not daring to move. It was Jack and David, staring at me as if they had expected I would walk out the door at that precise moment.

I was particularly surprised at Jack's presence. Hadn't I seen him the day before when he was seemingly traveling towards distant adventures with the Governor of New York? Yet there he was, standing with David Jacobs, a paper in his hands just for me.

"Ya wanna buy a pape?" David was smiling as Jack spoke.

"Depends. How're the headlines?" I took another step closer to them.

"Oh, it's a good one today, miss," he said as he handed me the newspaper. "Somethin' 'bout a strike. Great read, I assure ya."

I raised my eyebrows and took the paper from his hands. As I flipped through the pages, I could feel myself grinning.

"I'll bet."

I walked back into the millinery and found Ms. Woods, sitting in her chair and working on an intricate beading detail for her newest hat order. I walked up and placed the newspaper on the table beside her.

"Isabel," she said as I began walking away. Was this it? Was she going to say something about the strike?

"Yes, Ms. Woods?"

"There is a delivery for Ms. Parker that I need you to run this afternoon. It's very important and she has been waiting a very long time for it."

"Yes, Ms. Woods."

She raised her eyes on slightly to look at me. "You won't be late, now will you, Isabel?"

"Of course not, Ms. Woods." She nodded and I walked away.

I didn't know whether to throw my hands up or smile. So when I was far enough away, I did both.

It was going to be a good day.


End file.
